


You make me feel human

by Dragona



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Assassian Ian, Assassin AU, Blood and Injury, Bottom Ian Gallagher, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Murder, Prison, Psychopath Ian, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Switching, Top Ian Gallagher, Top Mickey Milkovich, dark themes, serial killer au, suicidal behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragona/pseuds/Dragona
Summary: "Tell me about your years as an assassin.""That's a lot to tell," Gallagher says. "You're going to have to be more specific.""Tell me about Milkovich."The change in Gallagher's expression is immediate. His smile vanishes and his eyes go cold. Then he takes a deep breath, and laughs. "Oh, you want to know about Mickey."----In which Ian is a cold-blooded serial killer with a soft spot for a certain South Side asshole.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 733
Kudos: 828





	1. Milkovich

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Before we dive in, I just need to strongly iterate that Ian is a BAD PERSON in this fic. On top of being an assassin, he displays a number of manipulative and toxic behaviours that make him pretty awful. I am in no way attempting to romanticise or glorify these traits. He’s not a Good Guy™.
> 
> Also, this is NOT intended as a representation of bipolar disorder, by any means. In this fic, Ian’s mental disorders extend far beyond bipolar (think, extreme personality disorder territory). So please don’t take his behaviour to be a representation of bipolar—it’s definitely not.
> 
> This fic also deals with a lot of dark themes, including mental health, mental disorders, self-harm, suicidal behaviour, along with a number of other similar subjects. **If you struggle with mental health issues, this fic may not be for you.** Please take care of yourself and make sure you’ve read all the tags and warnings before proceeding. More may be added further into the fic.
> 
> For anyone who would like to join me on my quest to descend into hell, please enjoy! :)

Unfortunately, this isn't Doctor Miller's first time visiting a prison.

Much of her childhood was spent with family members rotating in and out of the system. This time she isn't visiting a family member, thank God. Her family is fucked up, sure, but this one exceeds anything her family ever did, by far.

She has a prison guard on either side of her; a small comfort. Very small. This prison is max security. Mid-nowhere, depressing, hyper-vigilant guards who are probably just as twisted as half the criminals in here. On arrival she was forced to part with her pocket knife and mace. Not that she expected to be allowed to keep them, but being armed with nothing but a pen and research folder does not give her peace of mind.

They pass through cell block D and the guard scans them into the isolated custody block. The racket of shouts and clanging metal fades as the heavy door shuts behind them.

It's silent.

Doctor Miller can hear blood pumping in her ears. This cell block looks no different to those in gen-pop. Grey walls, shuttered cells with only a small barred window embedded into their heavy doors. But it's quiet.

"Prisoners are out in the yard," one of the guards explains.

"How long do I have with him?" Miller asks.

"An hour, tops."

That’s simultaneously too much and too little time. Curiosity is why she's here. A thirst for answers. For understanding. But this isn't a man she wants to spend an hour with. Or any time at all, for that matter. She could turn back, she knows. Oh, how she wants to.

But she can’t. This is too important.

He's already waiting for them in the interview room when they enter. A third officer is with him. _Tara_ , her badge says. She nods to her colleagues.

"Any trouble?" one of them asks.

"Attitude," she says disdainfully. "But nothing new. Lunch?" Her colleague nods.

"Rodriguez will be right by the door the entire time," Tara explains to Doctor Miller as they head out. "Any trouble…"

"I understand," Miller says. She isn't paying attention to them. Her heart is pounding, a chill creeping up her spine. She sits in the seat opposite the prisoner. He looks up.

He's dressed in dark grey to distinguish him from those in gen-pop. It's a stark contrast to his fiery hair, which hangs in his eyes, limp and messy. He's slim, almost gaunt, and his skin is deathly pale.

_Highly sedated_ , the guards told her upon entry.

He's watching her. She pretends to flip through her notes so she doesn’t have to meet his eye, but she can feel his gaze. He's cuffed to the table. It isn't very reassuring.

She clears her throat, tapping her pen. "Mr. Gallagher."

"You can look at me, you know."

Her heart jumps when he speaks. She doesn't know why, but she wasn't expecting his voice to be so… gentle. Soft and almost sweet. It's enough to throw her, but just for a moment. She doesn't have to remind herself that she's speaking to a serial killer.

She forces herself to meet his gaze, and instantly regrets it. His eyes are murky green and striking. His features are deceptively innocent. Soft freckles, pink lips, smile lines. There's an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"My name is Doctor Miller," she begins.

"Ah, another doctor. You here to assess me again? I can save you some time. Narcissism, sadism, manic tendencies…"

"Yes, I did read your psychological assessments."

"Impressed?"

"Not the word I'd use. And you left out psychopathy."

Gallagher smiles. "I don't think you're meant to tell a psychopath they're a psychopath. They tend to find it upsetting."

"I'll take my chances." Miller tries to hold eye contact, but his smile is throwing her. She clears her throat and looks down at her notes. There isn't much written on them. They're more of a safety net. "I'm conducting research for my paper on the link between psychological disorders and violent tendencies in young males," she says.

"Sounds a lot like me," says Gallagher.

Miller slides a form across the table, along with a pen. "Do you consent to be interviewed and for your responses to be recorded for research purposes?"

He glances over the form, his smile twitching. "You need my consent for this? I thought thirteen life sentences stripped away that right." He signs anyway and pushes the form back across the table with what little mobility the handcuffs allow.

Miller eyes the pen, which is still in his hand.

He notices. "Oh, you want this back too? I was under the impression I'd be allowed to keep it. Well I'm afraid I've grown rather attached, you'll have to come and take it from me."

Behind Miller, Officer Rodriguez takes a step forward. "Don't give me a reason, Gallagher."

Gallagher gives the guard a blank look and pushes the pen towards Miller. "Lighten up, Rex. I only get visitors once in a blue moon. I'm just making conversation."

Miller pockets the pen and files away the consent form. "Then talk to me about your years as an assassin."

"That's a lot to tell," Gallagher says. "You're going to have to be more specific. What do you want to know about? Anyone in particular? Anthony Wyatt? Fatal head wound with his golf trophy."

There’s pride in his voice.

"No?" Gallagher hums. "Maybe you prefer the clean ones. What about Lia Gomez? Tragically overdosed on her pain medication after finding out her husband was sleeping with a very attractive redhead."

"Tell me about Milkovich."

The change in Gallagher's expression is immediate. His smile vanishes and his eyes go cold. Then he takes a deep breath, and laughs. "Oh, you want to know about Mickey."

Miller's chest tightens and she nods. "Yes."

"Why?"

"He interests me."

Gallagher scoffs. There's that narcissism. He wants this to be about him, not someone else.

"How long ago did you meet him?" Miller asks. "How old were you?"

"Eighteen."

_So young._ "Five years ago?"

"That’s right."

Gallagher goes silent. He isn't making eye contact anymore. Miller knows she's found a chink in his armour. "What happened?" she asks. "Tell me."

Gallagher pushes his hair out of his eyes and licks his lips. He's scratching the scuff marks on the table, fidgeting, restless. "What do you want to know?"

Miller shrugs. “Why not start at the beginning. How did you meet?”

Gallagher’s rubs the back of his knuckles, humming. “Oh, it was incredibly romantic.”

****

Ian looks up and down the street before entering the casino. He’s a good twenty blocks from the hotel room with a fresh corpse on the bed, but you can never be too careful. You only have to be followed once to learn when to watch your back.

He rereads the text on his phone.

_Golden Ram. Craps table._

The Golden Ram is not as glamorous as it sounds. Apart from the cheap sparkly sign on the outside, it’s a bit of a dump. If the sultry red and purple lights aren't enough of a mood-setter, then the outdated token machines and smell of bottom shelf vodka certainly are.

They’ve attempted to live up to their name, but most of the ‘gold’ adornments on the waitstaff and chandeliers are plastic garbage. The rainbow cocktails look impressive, but Ian can only imagine how watered down they are. Casinos may rake in obscene profits, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be cheapskate corner-cutters.

They’re ideal for these types of transactions, though. Money is always exchanging hands in a place like this. There’s an air of discretion, but it’s mostly for show. Once you’ve visited often enough, you can pinpoint the escorts and the con-artists and the gamblers. This is nothing but a place to exchange money. No one will look twice at two men exchanging a bag of coins.

Only this time it isn’t coins, unbeknownst to bystanders. It’s an ear. Gross, yes. Ian’s had worse. Once you’ve pulled teeth from a dead body, you begin to appreciate the simplicity of cutting off ears. Every client is different. Most don’t care for body parts. Sometimes they want the whole body, which is inconvenient, but at least it doesn’t involve dismemberment.

For most, a picture is enough. Usually, Ian doesn't even meet the client. Bennett handles the admin, the payouts, and when the murder hits the news, that’s the proof.

It’s the weirdos, like Mr. Lee, who like their ears.

Mr. Lee is standing at the craps table, as promised. Ian knows it’s him because of the red striped handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit. A pre-discussed identifier.

Ian circles the place a few times before moving to the craps table to stand beside Mr. Lee. He pretends to pay attention to the dice rolling on the table, clapping along with the rest of the group when the gambling newly-weds screech and cheer.

After several minutes, he slips the bag into Mr. Lee’s pocket.

Mr. Lee retreats slowly, and a few minutes later, Ian receives another text from Bennett.

_Lee was satisfied. Full amount deposited._

It was a pretty distinguishable ear. Ian doesn’t think he’s encountered anyone else with a dalmatian piercing.

He considers ordering a drink, but decides he’d rather not pay for something that's half water. Instead, he slips outside for a smoke. It’s hot for May, and the air is making Ian’s carefully styled hair go limp. He pushes it off his forehead and inhales from his cigarette, letting the smoke settle in his lungs. He pulls the burner phone from his pocket and snaps it, tossing it in a nearby trash bin. Music thumps from inside the casino, which shines its ghastly purple lights across the road.

“Motherfucker.”

Ian looks up. A bouncer is manhandling someone out of the place. The man is on the shorter side—at least, next to the brawny bouncer—with trimmed black hair. His formal dress shirt is a contrast to his grubby jeans and scuffed leather boots. He struggles out of the bouncer’s grip. “The fuck kind of a business is this!”

“Counting cards isn’t allowed in here, bud,” the bouncer says.

“I’m not your fuckin’ bud. And I wasn’t counting shit! I look smart enough to count fuckin’ cards?”

Ian wets his lips and exhales a stream of smoke. He can feel his smile growing.

“You don’t want me to answer that question, man.” The bouncer sounds tired. “Just move along. You don’t want any trouble.”

For a moment, the man looks as if he might hit him. Ian waits eagerly, watching the man’s fists clench and unclench.

“At least give me my fuckin’ money back if you’re not gonna let me finish the game.”

The bouncer crosses his arms and gives the man a blank stare. The man mutters something Ian can’t hear, but judging by the way he spits on the ground and gives the bouncer his finger, Ian can guess.

The man turns and trudges down the street, lighting up as he walks. Stubbing his cigarette out against the wall, Ian slowly trails after him, keeping his distance. It’s easy enough to blend in with the rush of people that fills the street. It’s a Tuesday night, but Ian knows the days of the week don’t mean much to the people here. Those that are employed have no qualms about showing up to work with last night’s booze still in their system.

The man walks for a while before going into a crappy looking dive. Ian looks up at the sign. _The Cave._ He wonders if that’s meant to be a euphemism for something, or if it really is just that. When he enters, he’s immediately greeted by the stench of stale beer and ashtrays. He hasn’t frequented places like this in years. Back when he couldn’t afford a fake ID. No one ever checked. When you’re this shitty a bar, a customer is a customer. Even if they’re five or six years underage. Unsurprisingly, no one asks for his ID when he walks in, or even when he orders a double bourbon at the bar.

The black-haired man is nowhere in sight.

Ian doesn’t let himself feel disappointed. He isn’t sure why he followed the man, really. If he wants a fuck, he can stop by any of the clubs in Boystown—or elsewhere, probably. There’s always someone willing. Usually multiple someones.

But he has to admit, he’s always had a taste for dark-haired men with bad tempers. Unpredictable is fun. He needs something fun tonight.

He’s almost finished his bourbon by the time the black-haired man reappears. He emerges from the bathroom, looking sour, and sits on the other end of the bar. Ian watches him down his drink in under ten seconds before he orders another. There’s ink on his fists.

He’s also wearing a wedding ring.

When the man reaches his fourth drink, Ian gets up and crosses the room. The stools on either side of the man are empty, the other patrons giving him a wide berth.

Ian sits down and orders another glass of bourbon. Next to him, the man glances up briefly, his scowl deepening, before he returns to his drink.

Ian smiles. “So where did you learn to count cards?”

The man looks up abruptly. “You fuckin’ followed me from the casino?”

Ian shrugs, sipping his drink.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“I heard you lost a bit of money.” Ian eyes the man’s empty glass. “I could pay for your drinks, you know.”

The man looks at him properly now, his brows furrowing. His eyes are light blue—a nice combination with the hair, Ian decides.

“You fuckin’ hitting on me?” the man asks.

“What do you think?”

The man lifts his hand. The one with the ring. “Married.”

“I noticed.”

The man stares at him as if he’s thick. But his eyes betray him, flicking down to Ian’s mouth. Ian smiles.

“What’s your name?” he asks. “I’m Ian.” He holds out his hand but the man doesn’t take it. Ian leans closer, grinning. “Don’t worry, we don't have to tell your husband.”

The man gives him a deadpan look. “Wife, actually.”

Ian is taken aback for a moment, but he quickly schools himself, smiling. “Ah, closeted. That’s okay. Been with plenty of your type before.”

“Thanks, but I don’t remember asking.” The man takes a cigarette from his pocket. Ian has his lighter out first, but the man slaps his hand away when he offers. It makes Ian grin.

“Hey, Milkovich,” says the woman behind the bar. “What’ve we said about smoking inside? Out.”

The man—Milkovich—gives her the finger, but slips off his stool anyway. Ian follows him outside, leaning beside him against the dirty brick wall as he smokes. “You lost or something?” Milkovich says. “Fuck off.”

Ian ignores him. “So Milkovich? Your wife take your name? Or maybe you took hers?”

“Pretty sure it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

Ian takes out a cigarette of his own. “How often do you two fuck?”

“What are you, a fuckin’ marriage counsellor?”

Ian laughs, smoke escaping through his nose. “Maybe I’m a hooker. Would explain why I’m so good at spotting a closeted gay guy with repressed sexual issues from a mile away.”

Milkovich snorts. “Sex life is just fine, thanks. And you’re not a hooker.”

“Oh? Not attractive enough?”

“Don’t have to be attractive to be a hooker. Just need to be good with whatever you’ve got between your legs.”

Ian smirks. “Well, that I am.”

“If you were a hooker you wouldn’t have offered to pay for my drinks,” Milkovich says, matter-of-fact. “If you are a hooker, then you’re a pretty desperate one. Or your rates are bullshit enough to cover drinks.”

Ian watches him, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He likes the way Milkovich’s eyes keep wandering to him. Like he's trying very hard not to look but can't quite help it. Usually when people look at him like that, they’re scared, or they want him. Milkovich doesn’t know what he does for a living, so Ian can only assume it’s the latter. There’s no better feeling than being wanted.

Being desired _._

But then Milkovich laughs, crushing the end of his cigarette beneath his boot. “Nah, I know what you are. You’re a stupid faggot kid who gets off on being fucked by older closeted guys ‘cause you’ve got daddy issues or some bullshit. Ain’t got time for brats. Go fuck yourself.”

For the briefest of moments, Ian feels that familiar spark of anger he gets right before pulling out his knife. But instead of rage, it flares into excitement. A thrill. The only thing better than being wanted, is being challenged.

He watches Milkovich walk away, his heart pounding.

****

“Why him?” Doctor Miller asks.

Gallagher is silent for some time. He’s smiling, but it lacks the playful amusement from before. It’s… fond. It gives his features a deceptive charm, and for a moment, Miller can see why so many fell for his ruse.

She waits for him. She’s gotten more out of him in the past hour than she could have hoped for. She’s almost sorry they’ve reached the end of their interview.

Eventually, Gallagher laughs, smile lines prominent around his eyes. “You know, if I had to boil it down to one thing, it would be his great ass.”

Well, it had to end somewhere.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Gallagher,” Miller says, gathering her notes and standing up. Tara, the guard from earlier, is waiting at the door for them.

“You can call me Ian.”

Miller looks at him. “No thank you, Mr. Gallagher. I’ll see you next week.”

“Doctor Miller,” he calls before she can step out the door. She turns. “Mickey wasn’t boring,” he says. “That’s why I liked him.”

Miller looks at him. He’s not as complacent as he was before. He almost looks defiant, as if he expects her to disagree. But she says nothing, and leaves the room. She’ll be back next week. She isn’t sure how many of these sessions they’ll allow her for her ‘research’. But she knows there’s a lot more to the Mickey Milkovich story, and she intends to get it out of him.


	2. Honour thy father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobic language and what can be interpreted as a hate crime (although it technically isn't). Also violence, but that's pretty much a given for every chapter.

“Why did you kill Terry Milkovich?”

Gallagher looks up at Doctor Miller, blinking innocently. “I was hired to do it.”

“Really? So it had nothing to do with the fact that he was Mickey’s father?”

Gallagher shrugs. “A job is a job.”

“And it was just a coincidence that you were hired to kill the father of the man you followed a few weeks before?” She deliberately avoids the word ‘stalked’. Somehow, she doesn’t think Gallagher would appreciate it.

He smiles. “That’s right. Just a coincidence.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“You don’t have to.” He pauses. “Well, I did have to pull a few strings to get the case off someone else. It wasn’t very high profile. Far below my paygrade.”

“But you took it. Because of the name.”

“Milkovich isn’t a very common last name.”

Miller rearranges her notes and takes a deep breath. “And did he suffer? Terry Milkovich.”

Gallagher raises an eyebrow. “The answer won’t comfort you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Yes. He did.”

****

Milkovich.

When Ian overhears Bennett discussing the name over the phone, his heart skips.

“I want the Milkovich case,” he says to her as soon as she hangs up. Bennett eyes him dubiously.

“Not worth your time. It’s low level shit. Some wannabe drug lord he ripped off.”

“I want it. Who have you assigned?”

Bennett adjusts her glasses and gives him a dull look. “Classified.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Well, whoever it is, I’ll do a better job.”

“A toddler could do it. The guy is a deadbeat loser with more testosterone than brain cells.”

Ian squares his jaw. “I want the job.”

Bennett shakes her head. “Why do you give a shit?” Ian just looks at her, defiant. “Fine. Take the fucking case. It’s only worth a couple grand.”

Ian hasn’t worked for that little since he was sixteen, but the money doesn’t concern him. This is his lead. How many people can there be in Chicago called Milkovich?

Terry Milkovich lives on the South Side in a deteriorating hovel. Ian remembers his years on the South Side, in a neighbourhood not too dissimilar to this. He doesn’t miss it. His family have long since scattered across the country and fallen out of touch with him.

Deliberately, he thinks.

He doesn’t have to wait long before Terry emerges from his house. His heart races as the front door opens, but… no, it isn’t him. Even from across the street, in the dark of night, Ian can tell this isn’t the same man he saw the other week. He’s a lot older, with greying hair and wrinkled skin. If there’s a family resemblance, Ian can’t see it.

Maybe it’s a relief that it’s not him. Would he have killed the other Milkovich if it had been him?

Probably. A job is a job. Might have been nice to fuck him first, though.

He trails after Terry until he walks into a bar. _The Alibi Room._ The name is familiar. Ian doesn’t think he’ll be recognised, but he waits outside nonetheless. Nothing dampens the mood like running into an old acquaintance.

He doesn’t have to wait long. After about half an hour, Terry stumbles out of the place, looking groggy. He passes Ian, grumbling to himself about toilet fees and overpriced drinks.

Ian finds him in the shadows of an alleyway with a cigarette in his mouth. He’s using the wall to steady himself while he takes a piss. Putting on a smile, Ian walks towards him. “Terry? Terry Milkovich.”

Terry looks up, grunting as he buckles up his jeans. “I fuckin’ know you?” he mutters, slurring.

Ian laughs and shakes his head. “So sorry, you probably don’t remember me. I’m a friend of your son’s.”

‘Son’ is a shot in the dark. He doesn’t even know if this guy is related to the other Milkovich. Ian watches the man’s face tentatively. He’s barely paying attention to Ian, clearly wasted out of his mind. He takes a drag of his cigarette.

“Which one?”

Ian smiles. His guess paid off. “How many do you have?”

Thankfully, Terry is too intoxicated to notice that Ian avoids his question. He just chuckles. “Hell if I know. Only raised three of ‘em. Or maybe it was four. Too many brats running around to remember which were mine.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he tries to move past Ian.

Ian blocks him.

Disgruntled, he pushes against Ian’s shoulder. “You got a fuckin’ problem?” He tries to push past Ian again, but this time Ian grabs hold of him.

He’s quick. Far too quick for Terry’s drunken reflexes. His stiletto knife is in Terry’s lower back before the man can lift a hand. He grunts in pain, his bloodshot eyes widening as his legs crumple beneath him. “F-fuck…” He tries to get up but his whole body is trembling. “Fuck I can’t… can’t feel my fuckin’ legs.”

There isn’t much bleeding for a stab wound. Ian was precise. He needs to draw this out. Just a nick of the sciatic nerve will be enough to keep him here. It’s a difficult wound to get right, but he’s had enough practice.

The situation is slowly dawning on Terry. He stares frantically up at Ian, his eyes flicking to the bloody stiletto in horror. “Motherf—help! Somebody help me! This fuckin’ psychopath… fuck.” Terry’s voice grows hoarse as he struggles for breath. That’ll be the panic setting in.

Ian sighs and sits down on a pile of discarded crates. He’s not worried about anyone finding them. It’s too busy on the street for anyone to hear Terry’s feeble shouts. And most are likely to mind their own business anyway.

“Tell me more about your kids,” Ian says, using his handkerchief to wipe the blood off his knife.

“What—what the fuck?”

“Your sons. What are their names?”

Terry stares at him, his face gleaming with sweat. “The fuck is wrong with you? I’m not telling you shit, fuckin’ psycho!”

Sighing, Ian gets up. Terry recoils when he presses the tip of his blade to his chest. “I’m gonna be honest with you, T, I don’t give a shit about you. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles and pats Terry’s shoulder, making him groan. “That wound won’t kill you. If you get to a hospital in the next hour, you might even be able to walk again.”

“Please,” Terry whimpers. He’s lost the tough bravado, reduced to tears and grovelling. “I’ll do anything you want. I—I can get you money. I just need time. Or drugs. You looking for drugs? I can get you that. Please just…”

Ian shakes his head. “No, no, you’re not listening to me Terry. All I’m looking for is your son.”

Terry nods, closing his eyes briefly. The colour has drained from his face. He will bleed out eventually, but he has time. “My son… my son, yes. Which one? I can find him.”

“Black hair, blue eyes, five-seven? Married?”

Terry nods slowly. “Yes… that’s Mickey. You’re looking for Mickey. I can get him for you. What’d the little faggot do this time? Fuck, I’ll kill him for this. I’ll kill him myself.”

Ian’s fist tightens around his knife. Mickey. Mickey Milkovich. The type of name an idiot of a father would pick. Ian takes a deep breath, dragging the tip of his knife over Terry’s cheek. Terry’s eyes are wide with alarm.

“Don’t worry, Terry. I’ll see him at your funeral.”

****

Ian has attended a lot of funerals in his time. Most are bigger than this. There can’t be more than ten people here. It’s in the neglected corner of a small Church cemetery, the sky a fitting grey above. Some Russian woman organised it, Hal tells him.

Hal works for the people who ordered the hit on Terry. He’s a weasel of a man with very little hair and twitchy fingers that often seem to stray into people’s pockets. He’s scared shitless of Ian, so Ian isn’t concerned for his own belongings.

Most of the time, Ian doesn’t meet the clients. But this time, he went out of his way to track the man down. He doesn’t think Hal appreciates the gesture, but he’s too skittish to mention it. It was a little too easy to convince him to bring Ian to the funeral.

“Don’t know why you wanted to come to this thing,” Hal mutters to Ian as people pass the grave to pay their respects.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Ian says.

“Boss’s orders. Likes to have at least one of us at the funerals. Sends a message and all that.”

Hal doesn’t strike Ian as the type of person whose presence ‘sends a message’.

Ian crosses his arms and watches the mourners pass Terry’s grave. None of them are the person he came here for. Mickey Milkovich is nowhere in sight. Part of Ian wonders if maybe he got the wrong Milkovich family. If maybe there’s another Milkovich in Chicago with black hair and blue eyes.

He’s preparing to leave when he hears a hushed argument behind him.

“Go on, he was your father. Pay respects and leave.”

“He was a bastard is what he was.”

Ian smiles. He knows who it is before he turns around. Mickey Milkovich is standing with a woman. She’s speaking in a thick, Russian accent, trying to urge him forward. But he’s scowling, defiant. He’s a lot more polished than he was the other week. Black suit and tie, hair combed back.

Eventually, he concedes and lets the woman usher him towards the ceremony. He walks up to his father’s grave and hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “Look at you, Terry,” he says, nudging the fresh dirt with his shoe. He laughs, then spits on the ground. “Finally where you belong, you piece of shit.”

There are a few hushed gasps from the other guests, but no one says anything. Mickey looks back at the woman, who rolls her eyes. She takes out a pack of cigarettes, lighting up and wandering away.

“I’d like to spit on his grave too,” Hal murmurs. There’s an unspoken ‘but I’m too much of a coward’.

Ian watches as Mickey wanders around the back of the Church. “Excuse me,” he says to Hal, patting the man on the shoulder before following Mickey.

He finds him smoking. He’s taken off the blazer and tossed it over a crumbling tombstone. Even with the cloud cover, it’s warm. Ian can see Mickey’s thick biceps where his shirt sticks to his arms.

“Mind if I join you, Mickey?” he asks, sitting on top of one of the headstones.

Mickey looks up then does a double-take. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. What, are you stalking me now? And who told you my name?”

“Who didn’t tell me your name? You’re famous around here. And of course I’m not stalking to you.” Ian smiles pleasantly. “Terry was a dear friend.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, my ass. Terry didn’t have friends.”

“Judging by the way he died, I’d say he had a fair few enemies. Got a light?” Ian takes out a cigarette. After eyeing him for a moment, Mickey grudgingly pulls out his lighter. They stand in silence, smoke filling the air around them. Ian is surprised when Mickey speaks first.

“You hear what he did to the body?”

“Who?”

“The guy that killed him.”

“How do you know it was a guy?”

Mickey gives him a deadpan stare. “You ever hear of a woman carving ‘fag’ into a dude’s head?”

Ian wets his lips, smiling to himself. “No.”

Mickey laughs. “Pretty fucked up, right? Kind of ironic too. Spent his life kicking the shit out of—fags.” He stops. Clears his throat. “Whatever. Doesn’t really matter. Point is, he’s dead.”

“Are you glad?”

Ian watches Mickey’s face closely. He’s difficult to read. He always looks sort of pissed off. “Dunno. Guess so? He was a cunt, so.” Mickey stubs his cigarette out against the headstone Ian is sitting on. “I need a beer.”

Ian gets up, grinding his cigarette under his shoe. “Is that an invitation?”

Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, why the fuck not? You’ll probably follow me if I say no anyway.”

Ian smiles. Probably.

Mickey picks the first bar they come across. It’s busy and overpriced. Ian offers to pay for Mickey’s drinks but is flatly shut down. In retaliation, he orders himself a glass of whiskey from the top shelf, and doesn’t share.

“Fucker,” Mickey says as he drinks his tap beer. “Where’s a kid like you get that kind of money? Parent’s loaded?”

Ian laughs. “What parents?”

Mickey eyes him, brow raised. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Yeah, all right. I’m not a fuckin’ cop.” When Ian says nothing, Mickey rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you don’t have to tell me. Don’t really give a shit.” He waves at the bartender to pour him another beer. “So what were you really doing at Terry’s funeral? And don’t try and tell me you were friends. I knew Terry, and you weren’t his type of guy. Unless he was kicking the crap out of you.”

Ian smiles into his drink. He finishes it and orders another before speaking. "Friend of a friend."

"Again. Terry didn't have friends."

Ian rolls his eyes. "Right. And what's your excuse for being there?"

"Well someone had to spit on his grave, didn't they?"

Ian smirks. "I suppose that's true."

Mickey tips back his beer. "Plus, Svetlana was on my ass about it for days."

"The Russian woman? Isn’t she the one who planned it?"

"Yeah. She’s got too much time on her hands. Figured I'd better make an appearance or people would start thinking I was the one who shanked him. Then who'd pay her ass child support?"

Ian freezes. His fist goes tight around his glass, his knuckles white. "Child support?"

"Yeah, she's got this kid—"

"Your kid?"

Mickey raises an eyebrow. "Only by blood."

_He fucked her._ "She’s your wife,” Ian says numbly.

Mickey is tapping his fingers on the bar. "Yep.”

“But you’re gay.”

“You already knew I had a wife.”

“Yeah, but you _fucked_ her.”

Mickey sighs, biting his tongue. “Yeah… doesn’t mean I was fuckin’ thrilled about it.” He swallows, looking uncomfortable. “Man, what the fuck’s it got to do with you anyway? Piss off.”

“Who’s the kid?” Ian asks quietly.

Mickey sighs, wiping foam off his lip. “Yev. He’s one.”

“Do you love him?”

Mickey stares at him. “He’s my fuckin’ kid.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

“Jesus—the fuck is with all the questions? I barely fuckin' know you. Stay out of my damn business."

Ian scowls, taking a long sip of his drink. _He doesn't give a shit about the kid. Or his wife. It doesn't matter._ "So, were you the one who killed your dad?"

Mickey gives him a strange look. "Jesus. I look like a killer to you?"

"That depends. What does a killer look like?"

Ian's heart thrums with adrenaline as he watches Mickey. Mickey drains his glass and waves over the bartender for a refill. "Dunno. Like a psycho, I guess?" He frowns, going silent for a moment. "You'd have to be pretty messed up in the head to do that to a dead body. Even if it was just Terry."

"Or pissed off."

Mickey frowns. "Suppose. Plenty of people out there pissed at him." He tips his full glass back and drains it completely.

Ian raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You know, a lesser man would have choked if he’d tried drinking his beer that fast.”

Mickey grunts and taps his empty glass. “You know what? I changed my mind. Order me some of that top shelf shit—and don’t look so pleased with yourself. You know what? Get me the whole fuckin’ bottle, just ‘cause you’ve got a smug grin and I don’t like it.”

Ian happily complies, summoning the bartender. She gives him a dubious look. “ID?” Ian hands it to her and she studies it for a good few seconds before handing it back. “Two hundred for the bottle,” she tells him. Mickey gives a low whistle as she places it in front of him. He picks it up and studies the label, grinning.

“Man, I could have you eating out of my hand, couldn’t I, pretty boy?”

Ian hums. “We’ll see.”

Two hours, and three-quarters of a bottle later, Ian is holding Mickey up as they stumble down the street. After making three circles around the block, Mickey assures him this is his neighbourhood—he just can’t seem to find the right house.

“Man, you know…” He leans heavily on Ian, taking a swig from the bottle. “When I saw you at the funeral, I thought, ‘fuck, someone’s fuckin’ hired this guy to take me out’.” He laughs to himself, clinging tightly to Ian’s arm. “Fuckin’ nuts. You’re just some hot dick in desperate need of a lay.” He looks up at Ian. “Am I right?”

Ian stops walking. He brushes his finger over Mickey’s jaw. “Do you want to be right?”

Mickey lifts his middle finger. “Fuck you.”

“That's what I'm asking for.”

Mickey snorts. “Then go fuck yourself.” He hesitates, then sighs. “‘Course I want to. You’re hot. And you ain’t charging, far as I know. Plus I’m willing to bet you’re big.”

Ian bites his lip, all the blood rushing downward. “Mhm.”

“I’m pretty big too. Y’know, if you like it that way.” He’s staring at the ground, rather than Ian. "And tight. So I'm told."

Ian sucks in a breath. He wants him. “You have a filthy mouth, Mickey Milkovich.”

“Nah. You haven’t heard filthy.” Mickey looks up. In the darkness, his eyes are murky blue. Ian touches his face again, brushing Mickey’s bottom lip with his thumb. Mickey lets out a soft breath, then pulls away. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, I can’t do this.”

Irritation and impatience flicker within Ian. He forces himself to exhale. “Okay.”

“I want to,” Mickey tells him. “You’ve got no fucking idea. But…”

“But?”

Mickey shakes his head. “I’m drunk as fuck. Don’t even know you—plus you stalked me. Instant red flag.” He looks around, a burst of laughter leaving him. “Don’t think this is even the right neighbourhood. You should probably go.”

Ian bites his tongue, inhaling. “You’re an idiot.”

“Why? Because I’m passing up fucking you?”

“Yes.”

Ian doesn’t like feeling like this. Like he needs someone, even if it’s just for sex. He isn’t used to being turned down either. He needs to fuck this guy, so that he can forget about him. A challenge is only fun if you can win.

“Look at me,” he says. Mickey does. Leaning in, Ian cups Mickey’s jaw. “You know, when we do finally fuck—and we will—it’s going to feel better than anything you’ve felt in your life. You’re going to beg me. Like a bitch. And you’re going to scream my fucking name.”

Mickey stares at him, his cheeks flushed. Ian can feel his heavy breaths against his face. He starts to draw away, but Mickey grasps his shirt, yanking him in. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “I’m nobody’s bitch. And I don’t scream or beg.” He shoves Ian back and walks away, still swaying slightly.

Ian can only watch. A laugh escapes him. He doesn’t know why. Nothing about the situation is funny. He’s _frustrated._ Is that funny? He isn’t used to feeling frustrated. Most situations he can’t fuck his way out of, he can kill his way out of.

But he doesn’t want to kill Mickey. He wants Mickey to want him.

****

“So you killed his father and he didn’t want to fuck you? Shocker.” Miller is already packing away her notes. This session wasn’t as fruitful as she’d hoped. Then again, she often gets the sense that Gallagher isn’t telling her everything.

“You remind me of him a little, you know.”

Miller stops, her fist tightening around her pen. “Well, that isn’t good. Given the way things turned out.”

Gallagher laughs softly. “Lucky for you that I’m in handcuffs then.”

A tightness builds in Miller’s chest. She shoves the rest of her things into her bag and nods at the prison guard. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gallagher,” she says thickly.

“Doctor Miller.”

It takes a lot of willpower not to ignore him and walk away. She turns slowly. Gallagher’s expression is mild, calm. She loathes it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“You seem rattled.”

“I just spent the last hour listening to a serial killer talk about how he murdered a man in order to stalk his son, so yes, I am a little rattled.”

She knows she’s treading a thin line. Gallagher is unpredictable and explosive. Openly insulting him may not be the best move.

But he remains placid. She wonders what kind of drugs they have him on. “Then why did you ask?” he says.

She considers before answering. She could be truthful, but she knows that wouldn't go down well. He won't believe her if she lies either. She settles for a half-truth.

“Because I’m trying to figure you out.”


	3. An act of kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Roofies, attempted rape (not perpetrated by Ian or Mickey), stalking. Additional warning in the end notes which is a bit more spoilery, but definitely read it if you feel you need to.

"Mickey was kind, you know."

Miller looks up from her notes. Gallagher is smiling. Genuinely smiling. He only does it when he's talking about Mickey Milkovich.

"How so?" she asks.

“He helped me.”

“Helped you how?”

Gallagher shrugs. “He saved my life.”

Miller puts her pen down, eyeing him dubiously. “He saved your life? And how exactly did he do that?”

Gallagher considers for a moment, humming to himself. “He did it a few times, actually. The first time was just by chance. Some might call it fate.”

Miller doesn't hide her scoff. "Fate?"

"You don't believe in fate?"

"No."

Gallagher shrugs. "Then call it luck. I was in trouble. And he was just... there."

****

Sometimes, when Ian works, things get messy. He’s good enough at his job that it isn’t a common occurrence. But every now and then, a target will catch him off guard.

Unfortunately, this is one of those nights.

Tonight, he’s a hooker. The motel the target takes him to is downtown, and seedy as hell. That doesn’t bother Ian. In fact, it’s ideal. Places like this don’t bother with security cameras. Cynthia Moore is in her mid-forties, hair thinning, voice rough from too much smoking.

And she has a hell of a temper.

When Ian pulls a knife on her, he’s just a moment too slow. She scrambles off the bed and dives for her purse. As it turns out, she brought a knife too.

“I should’ve fuckin’ known you weren’t legit,” she says, holding the switchblade in front of her.

Ian smiles, circling the bed slowly. “Oh, really? What gave me away?”

“Too pretty to be straight.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Well observed.”

“Who sent you? Was it Jackson? That motherfucker still owes me like two hundred bucks. He really thinks this is the best way to clear his debt?”

Ian is willing to bet it isn’t Jackson. He’s being paid a lot more than two hundred. “I don’t ask questions,” he says, creeping closer. Although, Bennett implied it was some Mafia hit. Cynthia Moore doesn’t strike Ian as a Mafia woman, so he’s willing to bet she’s just collateral. Wrong place, wrong time, and all that.

“What’s he paying you? I can pay double.”

Ian highly doubts that. And even if it were true, he isn’t one to break a contract. He says nothing, advancing on Cynthia. She backs against the wall, still brandishing her knife. Ian stops about two paces away and smiles. “Oh, Cynthia. This has been lovely, but I’m afraid you’ve brought a knife to a gunfight.” He takes his pistol out and aims it at her. Guns aren’t as fun as knives, but sometimes, you have to make do.

Before he can pull the trigger, Cynthia lunges at him.

He grunts when she crashes into him, firing his gun. Blood splatters the wall behind her and she goes limp, collapsing to the floor. It’s a clean hit, right through the chest. She’s dead in a matter of seconds.

It takes Ian a few moments to register the pain in his ribs. He winces, touching his shirt to find it bloody. Shit. She got him with the knife. Just barely. It doesn’t feel deep. But it’s bleeding steadily enough that he should probably get back to his apartment sooner rather than later. He pulls on his shoes and jumper—it’s dark green, so the blood shouldn’t be too obvious if it soaks through—then heads out.

The motel parking lot is empty, blessedly. Someone probably heard the gunshot, so he needs to get out quickly. Unfortunately, he got a taxi here. He doesn’t want to risk calling another one now, and the L is too far out of the way. The best way home is to walk. It’s a good hour.

No problem. He’s had worse.

He makes his way down the quiet road. It’s a shitty part of town, so no one will blink twice at a stab wound. Which is good, because the blood has seeped through his jumper now. Fuck. The wound might be worse than his first assessment. The pain has gone from a dull throb to an ache that flares through his ribcage. The adrenaline is starting to wear off.

By the time he makes it to the nightlife district, he’s starting to feel dizzy. Everything around him is too bright. Too loud. Just a rainbow of invasive, flashing lights and the stench of smoke and beer. People bump into him as they pass him, which does no good for the pain.

When he reaches a break in the crowd, he leans against the wall outside a club, catching his breath. He can hear the deep thump of music coming from inside. Oh, to be in there. Normally, after a job, he likes to hit the town, looking for a warm body to take him home.

Adrenaline and sex are a great combo.

A cold sweat has broken out on his forehead. He hears a voice behind him, almost drowned out by the buzz of music and drunken idiots. “Hey man, you can’t be here. Let’s move it along.”

He looks up. The surprise on Mickey’s face must mimic his own. It’s been months. He hasn’t seen him since his father’s funeral.

Emotions flood him—far more than he can process in the midst of his blood loss. He looks Mickey up and down, slowly, then smiles. “You’re a bouncer.”

Mickey’s eyes drop to the bloody patch on Ian’s jumper. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding. What the fuck happened to you?”

Ian laughs weakly. “Oh, nothing. I’ll walk it off.”

He tries to stand up but sways. Mickey catches him, arms around his shoulders. “Fuck, okay. Just… chill for a second. Stay right here.” Ian leans bodily against the wall as Mickey goes over to talk to the other bouncer at the doorway to the club. “I’m taking my break.”

The other man looks at Ian dubiously. “Hey man, you can’t just—”

“I’m taking my fuckin’ break. No, in fact—I’m off for the rest of the evening. Got a problem with it? Take it up with fuckin’ management.” Mickey takes off his handheld radio and tosses it onto the table at the door, then marches back over to Ian. “The fuck are you grinning about?”

Ian laughs softly, regretting it when his ribs throb. “Real white knight, aren’t you?”

“Get fucked. Can you walk?” Ian nods, but Mickey still puts an arm around his shoulders and guides him down the street. “Get in the fuckin’ car,” he says when they stop.

Ian eyes the thing. Grey hatchback that’s definitely seen better years. When he gets into the passenger seat, it has that false clean smell. Like someone has tried scrubbing away years of mould with carpet shampoo. There’s even a pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

Mickey gets into the driver’s seat, giving the key a few turns before the car starts.

“My place is about ten minutes from here if you take the South Loop,” Ian says.

Mickey eyes him. “No hospital?”

“Hospitals ask questions.” Ian waits for Mickey to argue. He looks like he wants to. But eventually he nods, and pulls onto the road. If he drives a little over the speed limit, neither of them mentions it.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Mickey asks as he helps Ian up the stairs into his apartment building.

“Maybe later,” Ian says, breathing heavily. Mickey frowns.

They step into the elevator with Doris, Ian’s elderly landlady. She takes one look at his blood-soaked shirt and gives him a disapproving shake of her head. Ian doesn’t mind her. She’s seen him in all kinds of states. Never asks questions.

Ian lives on the sixth floor. It’s a nice place. Clean. Not quite top-of-the-range, but to someone who grew up below the poverty line, it’s utter luxury.

“You live alone?” Mickey asks as he twists the key in Ian’s door. Ian nods. “Jesus, how do you afford this place? You’re what? Fifteen?”

Ian laughs, which sends a spike of pain through his ribs. “Twenty-one.”

"Yeah. All right."

Once the door is open, Ian flicks on the lights and heads straight for the kitchen. He keeps a box under the sink which holds all the medical supplies he needs to patch himself up on days when the job doesn’t go smoothly.

Mickey locks the door behind him, his eyebrows going up as he looks around the place. “Man, you’ve gotta be in drugs or something. Maybe inheritance. No way a kid is paying for this with honest money.”

“Depends on your definition of honest.” Ian dumps the med kit on the counter. He grips the polished surface when a wave of dizziness overwhelms him. "Fuck…"

He looks down to see his blood dripping on the grey tiles. Not good.

"Jesus, you look like shit," Mickey says, hurrying over to stop him from falling. "How about you come sit down here?" He picks up the first aid kit and guides Ian to the living room sofa.

Blood drips onto the cushions. Ian is glad they're black. He leans back and shuts his eyes. His head spins.

"All right, let's get this off," Mickey says, lifting Ian's jumper over his head.

"Finally got you to undress me," he murmurs. His face is numb and cold.

"Yeah don't thank me yet." Mickey peels his shirt away from the wound and winces. "Fuckin' Christ, is that a stab wound?" Ian nods weakly. Black spots dance in front of his eyes. "Fuck. Okay. Give me a second."

Ian is in and out for a while. He groans when he feels the cold sting of antiseptic on the wound. He obeys Mickey's order to bite down when he hands him his balled up shirt. When Mickey pulls out the needle and thread, the pain escalates to a sharp ache. Ian cries out against the fabric in his mouth.

It's about then that he passes out.

When he comes to, his head throbs. A glance at the window tells him it's still night outside. The apartment is lit by the glow from the TV, the volume on low. It's a cooking show. The contestants are making cupcakes.

On the sofa beside him, Mickey is sitting back with his arms folded, eyes on the TV.

"Didn't peg you as a cooking show guy," Ian says. He tries to sit up and regrets it instantly, his ribs giving a throb of protest.

"You're awake."

"Apparently. How long was I out?"

Mickey doesn't look away from the TV. "Couple of hours."

Ian glances down at his ribs. "You stitched me up."

Mickey shrugs. "Growing up on the South Side teaches you a few things."

"You left me half naked," Ian says. He smiles when Mickey's eyes flicker to him.

"Am I your mother? Dress yourself."

Grinning, Ian lies back down. It's going to take him a few days to recover from the blood loss. But as long as it doesn't get infected, he should be fine. Might need to pick up some antibiotics tomorrow.

He doesn't have another job scheduled until next week. Not that he's never worked while injured, but he prefers not to. It hinders his performance. He has a reputation to uphold.

"Why did you stay?" he asks, looking at Mickey.

"Wanted to make sure you woke up," Mickey says.

"And now?" Ian watches Mickey's jaw work. He’s trying his best not to look at Ian.

“I can leave.”

Ian smiles, shaking his head. "No, you should stay. I'm going to take a shower and I might slip and give myself another injury that needs patching up." He eases himself off the couch, hissing at the sharp pain in his side.

Mickey glances at him. "You need a hand?"

“In the shower?”

"Man, shut the fuck up. You know what I mean."

"I'm good. Unless you're offering—"

"I'm not."

Smirking, Ian heads into the bedroom and strips down to his boxers. He catches Mickey's gaze straying away from the TV. "I mean it," he calls. "You're welcome to join me."

Mickey scowls and looks away, lifting his middle finger. Ian is beginning to wonder if it’s a sign of affection.

He leaves the bathroom door open. Just in case.

Once he's clean, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads back into the living room. "What did you do with the antiseptic?" he asks, tilting his head when Mickey looks up.

"Uh, kitchen." Mickey clears his throat, face flushed.

Ian dabs his stitched up wound with the cream, breathing through the pain. He downs a couple of painkillers before heading back to his room and getting dressed.

“I’m not used to having company, you know,” he calls as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. “Not for more than an hour anyway.”

“Yeah well, I won’t stay much longer, don’t worry.”

After putting on a clean shirt, Ian sits beside Mickey on the sofa. Close enough that he can feel his body heat. “I’m not worried.”

Mickey’s throat pulses as he swallows. His eyes travel down Ian’s body, his lips parting. “I, um… fuck.”

“Problem?”

“I don’t do that type of thing.”

“What type of thing?”

Mickey inhales, jaw tensed. “You know what I’m talking about. The thing you’re clearly asking me to do.”

Ian cocks his head. “What? Adultery? You think your wife will care?”

“Jesus—don’t fuckin’ say it like that. No, she doesn’t. But I mean… I only ever fuck strangers. No one I know.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah? Who makes those rules? Your wife?”

“I… fuck, don’t do that.” Ian pauses, hand on Mickey’s inner thigh.

“You want me to stop?”

Mickey looks conflicted. “Listen, I should really… I should…” His eyes drop to Ian’s lips. “I… fuck. No, no I think you should stop.” He pulls away, out of Ian’s reach.

Ian huffs, slumping back on the couch. “What’s the issue? You’re clearly interested.” He eyes Mickey’s semi-hard on and Mickey scowls.

“Yeah, my dick’s interested. But my brain still works, and I ain’t doing this with you right now, okay?”

“Is it because you’re married?” Ian asks.

“No, it’s because you’re fuckin’ weird, Ian. I just stitched up a stab wound for you. I mean, you showed up at my dad’s funeral for Christ’s sake. That’s fuckin’ weird.”

Ian scowls. “You can think I’m weird and still fuck me.”

Mickey looks like he wants to say something, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. Then he just shakes his head. “I’m gonna leave now, okay? If you need anything just—just go to a fuckin’ hospital like a normal person.”

Ian watches the door slam behind him, fuming silently. He’s far from giving up.

****

Ian finds out which clubs Mickey regulars at as a bouncer. There are three in total. One is a gay club. After figuring out, roughly, what Mickey’s schedule is like, he starts going. Frequently.

He likes seeing the look on Mickey’s face when he shows up. He makes a special effort, every night, to bring home a different man. Well, usually just when Mickey is looking. He holds nothing back either. If there’s an opportunity for barely-decent frotting, he takes it.

But he never kisses them.

One night, he fucks up. Lets himself get distracted. It’s hard not to be distracted with Mickey in the general vicinity, scouting the dancefloor for indecency and half-conscious twinks. These are Ian’s favourite nights. When he can get right in Mickey’s line of vision and flaunt himself, get handsy with some jock, grind against half a dozen guys.

Tonight, he’s watching Mickey from the bar. It’s early still, and Ian is waiting. His face makes him approachable, he’s been told. He isn’t sure it’s meant as a compliment or not, but in these situations, it’s ideal.

Sure enough, around eleven, a man sits down next to him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Ian glances at him slowly, eyeing him up and down. He’s older, thirties maybe. Olive skin, well-built, thick dark hair and a trimmed beard. He’ll do.

“Of course you can,” Ian says with a lazy smile. The man grins and orders him a margarita. Ian watches Mickey across the room as he drinks it.

The guy’s name is Amal, he learns. And that’s about as interesting as he gets. He doesn’t make much conversation, but he buys Ian another couple of drinks. By the third one, Mickey has disappeared. Ian scowls, scanning the crowd. There isn’t much point fucking this guy if Mickey isn’t around to know about it.

Then Ian starts to feel lightheaded. He dismisses it at first as alcohol, but it gets worse. Worse than three drinks will do to you.

“Hey,” Amal murmurs, touching his arm. “You wanna find somewhere more private to continue this?”

“Uh, I…” Ian sways in his seat and has to cling to the edge of the bar to stay upright. “You know, I actually think I’m going to…” The rest of the sentence dies on his lips as a strong wave of dizziness overcomes him. Amal catches him, laughing.

“One too many, huh? Come on, let’s have some fun.”

Ian is starting to panic. His body is in flight mode, but the adrenaline isn’t enough to get his limbs to move. He’s helpless as Amal leads him towards the door.

“Hey man, he okay?”

“Yeah, my boyfriend—one too many drinks, I think. I’m gonna take him home.”

“All right. Take care of him dude.”

Ian shivers as a blast of cold air hits him. Amal puts an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay honey, almost there. I’m parked close by.”

Ian hears the click of a car door, then he’s being manoeuvred into the backseat. Amal rolls him onto his back and crawls in with him, leaning over him. Ian hears the car door close, drowning out the heavy thud of club music.

“You’re gorgeous, babe, you know that?” Amal strokes Ian’s hair. Ian tries to reach for his jacket. His knife is in the pocket, just a few inches away. He can barely lift his arm against the weight of the drugs.

He’s starting to wish he’d just pass out.

Icy air hits him again as the car door is wrenched open. Amal gives a shout as he’s dragged off Ian.

Ian watches, immobile, as Mickey slams his fist into the man’s face with a crunch. Over and over and over, until his hand is bloody. His face is twisted with rage. Even on the verge of blacking out, Ian’s heart races with excitement.

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on here?” Another bouncer rushes over and pulls Mickey off the guy.

Mickey steps back, spitting. “This sick fuckin’ perv drugged an underage kid, that’s what. Tried to fuckin’ screw him!”

“Shit.” Ian hears footsteps, then he’s being lifted. The other bouncer sits him upright. “Hey, hey kid. Can you tell me your name?” His voice sounds distant, underwater. Ian’s head slumps back against the seat. “Shit, he’s completely out of it. You know this guy, Milkovich? Can you take him home?”

“Yeah… yeah I know him. What about this fucker?”

“Look… we don’t need the cops showing up and finding out we’ve been serving underage kids.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? This guy is a rapist!”

“And what about your friend? Cops aren’t gonna be happy when they find out an underage kid is getting wasted at gay clubs. Just… take him home. Let him sleep it off. This shit happens all the time.”

Mickey’s nostrils flare as he glances between Ian and the man on the ground, who’s still groaning weakly. A few onlookers have gathered, watching the scene with interest.

“Fine,” Mickey says at last. “I’ll take him home. Just… tell the cops you caught this piece of shit with roofies or some shit. At least get him done for possession or intent or whatever.”

“Yeah, all right, Mick.” The other bouncer walks away. “Okay you lot, clear off. Nothing to see here.”

Ian feels Mickey’s arms around him, helping him stand. “What the fuck, Gallagher?” he mutters. “I’m not your fuckin’ bodyguard.” Ian can see Amal on the ground. His face is bloody and swollen.

Because of Mickey.

He tries to speak, but he can barely open his mouth. Instead, he rests his head on Mickey’s shoulder. He hears Mickey sigh. When he collapses, Mickey catches him and picks him up, carrying him over his shoulder. “I fuckin’ hate you,” he hisses. “Prick.”

Ian smiles, just barely.

****

“That’s your definition of kindness?” Miller asks sceptically. “Beating someone unconscious?”

Gallagher smiles brightly. “Of course, I can’t think of anything kinder. Do you know what it feels like? To have someone do that for you? It’s… _bliss._ ”

Miller has to look away from him. The pride in his expression is making her sick. “It sounds like you’re trying to drag him down to your level,” she says tersely.

She almost expects him to get upset. But he just smiles. “I’m not trying to do anything, doctor. I’m just telling you what happened.”

Miller sighs. “Right. Okay. So what next? You got turned on by the violence and it got you laid?”

Gallagher laughs, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Oh, it did bring us closer. Much closer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: Character dismissing attempted rape as 'normal' and 'not a big deal'. Essentially boils down to not holding the perpetrator accountable.


	4. Violence is a turn-on, I guess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Discussion of attempted rape (from previous chapter), attempted victim-blaming, Ian not understanding/respecting boundaries.
> 
> Also smut!

Miller frowns, looking at her notes. She’s circled Milkovich and Gallagher’s names three times and written _intimate connection????_ She feels like she’s missing something. Like there’s more at play in Gallagher’s stories than he’s letting on.

“Did you ever do the same for him?” she asks. “Did you ever… hurt anyone for him?” She’s certain she knows the answer, but she wants to hear him say it anyway.

“Oh, naturally.”

“How did he feel about it?”

Gallagher’s smile fades a little. He runs his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable.

“He didn’t like it, did he?” Miller says.

Gallagher blinks at her, then laughs. “Oh, quite the opposite, doctor.”

She frowns. She doesn’t like where this is going, but she asks anyway. “What does that mean?”

Gallagher looks amused. “I guess violence was just a huge turn-on for Mickey.”

****

Ian wakes up to the sound of shouting. Sunlight spills through the crack in the curtains. He sits up in bed, his head pounding. It's like a hangover on steroids. He stumbles to the bathroom and throws up, leaning over the toilet bowl for a few seconds before he gains his bearings.

The shouting is coming from the living room. Washing his mouth, he heads out.

Mickey is on the phone, pacing back and forth. "Are you fuckin’ with me? _He's_ the one who tried to rape a kid!" He looks up when Ian emerges from the bedroom and sighs. "Fuck's sake. I'll call you back, okay? I can't deal with this shit on a Saturday morning."

He hangs up and Ian smiles. "You stayed over?"

"He’s fuckin’ suing me for assault!"

Ian approaches him slowly. “Where did you sleep last night?” Probably the sofa, but a guy can dream.

Mickey doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s pacing, fists clenched. “Probably gonna lose my fuckin’ job too. Apparently, I took things too far. Like that piece of shit didn’t deserve it.” He looks at Ian, frowning. "You feeling okay?"

Ian shrugs. "Kind of like I got hit over the head with a sack of bricks, but it'll pass."

"I mean like… about what happened?"

Ian raises an eyebrow. "Why would I not be okay?"

Mickey shrugs, staring at his shoes. "I dunno. You were almost--"

"Look, I’m not like… I’m not a fucking victim, okay?"

Mickey looks taken aback. "Never said you were. I just mean—whatever. Not my place. I should go. Let you sort your shit out."

Ian fidgets, biting his lip. “You can stay.”

Mickey’s eyes flick over him, assessing him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Look, Ian, I…” He runs a hand through his hair. “It just isn’t, okay. You and me? That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

Ian says nothing. He turns away, scowling.

“I’m gonna go,” Mickey says quietly. “If you need to, like… go to the hospital or something, I uh, left my number on the fridge.”

Ian glances up. “You left me your number?”

“For fuckin’ _emergencies._ ”

Ian gives him a small smile. “Okay.”

Mickey sighs, rubbing his face. “Look, you… you sure you’re all right?”

Ian contemplates for a moment, then looks up at him. “What was the guy’s name? The one suing you?”

Mickey frowns. “Amal something. Nazari, I think? You know… you could press charges against him too.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Waste of time.”

Mickey looks perplexed. “A waste of time? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Don’t you want him to pay for what he did to you? Hell, you might even be able to get financial compensation out of him.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Ian says tightly. “And I don’t need his money.”

“He drugged you. He tried to fuckin’ rape you!”

Ian presses his lips together. “I told you, Mickey. I’m not a victim. You think I’m gonna stand in front of a courtroom and tell them I’m emotionally scarred because of some pervy dickhead who drives a Mercedes? Fuck off.”

“Jesus, all right.” Mickey shakes his head, sighing. “If it were me, I’d at least want revenge or some shit.”

Ian considers. “I could threaten him. Tell him I’ll press charges if he doesn’t drop the ones against you.”

Mickey gives him a dark look. “Yeah, no way I’m letting you anywhere fuckin’ near that perv.”

Ian wets his lips, studying Mickey. He has the same look he had on his face last night. His knuckles are bruised, Ian notices. “You like defending my honour?” he asks, smirking.

“Fuck your honour. I’m just trying to stop an underage kid from going near a pedophile.”

“I’m not underage,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “And I can handle myself.”

“You’re like sixteen.”

“Eighteen.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up. “Seriously? Eighteen? You told me you were twenty-one.”

“I’m twenty-one when I go out, eighteen at home, sixteen when I’m trying to scam old creeps into paying me to suck their dicks.”

Mickey sighs, tipping his head back. “Jesus fucking Christ. Whatever. Still not letting you near him.”

Ian bites his lip hard, trying not to smile. Mickey sounds _possessive._ “I’m going to sleep off the rest of this hangover, then I’m going to pay him a visit.” He turns and walks back to the bedroom.

“Wait.” Ian turns around to see Mickey frowning, irritated. “I’ll come with you.”

It’s easy to find out exactly who Amal Nazari is. His Facebook account isn’t very private, and Ian recognises his photo at once. When Ian opens the man’s page, Mickey’s fist tightens. Ian smiles to himself.

Nazari is a mechanic up on the North Side. His shop specialises in classic cars. There’s an ivory Aston Martin out front, polished to reflect the ceiling. Mickey eyes it with a sneer as he trails after Ian. He hasn’t stopped scowling since they left Ian’s apartment.

Ian walks over to the office, which is shut off from the rest of the garage by glass walls. He plasters on a pleasant smile and knocks on the door. The man behind the desk looks up and nods for him to enter. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Morning,” Ian says brightly. “We’re looking for Amal Nazari. Does he work here? Found his wallet in a bar last night. It had a few business cards for this place.”

The man nods, looking unfazed. “Yeah. Should be in the back. Working on the red Shelby.” At Ian’s blank look, he says, “Cobra.”

“Thank you!”

Ian glides past Mickey, who rolls his eyes. “Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

“They’re North Side. Passive-aggressive politeness is their language.”

As promised, they find Nazari at the back of the garage, leaning beneath the bonnet of a gleaming, cherry red cobra. There’s tape across his nose, and he’s sporting a split lip and a black eye. Makes up for the bruises on Mickey’s knuckles, Ian thinks.

As they approach, Ian drags his fingers along the roof. Nazari jumps, almost hitting his head. “Fucking hell, Em, don’t—” His expression darkens when he sees Ian and Mickey. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”

“Assault?” Mickey snaps, his nostrils flaring. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

Nazari sighs, crouching to pick a spanner from his toolbox. “Listen, just give me your lawyer’s details and we can have them reach a settlement. This doesn’t need to go to trial.”

“ _Trial?_ ” Mickey’s fists are shaking. Ian crosses his arms and leans against the car, watching the scene unfold. “You could go to fuckin’ prison for what you did! You should!”

Nazari puts down his tools, standing up. He’s much taller than Mickey, but Mickey doesn’t look intimidated. He stares up at Nazari, jaw clenched.

“You assaulted me,” Nazari says tightly. “I might have to get work done to fix my nose. Do you know how much that costs?”

“Just walk it off like the rest of us, you fuckin’ pussy. I ain’t paying for your fuckin’ nose job.”

Nazari takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “If you let our lawyers discuss it, I’m sure your medical insurance will cover it.”

Mickey stares at him, incredulous. “All right, listen up, you little trust fund bitch. You don’t drop the charges against me, Ian here is gonna go to the cops and tell ‘em about your little date rape stunt.”

That makes Nazari pause. He glances at Ian, his brow furrowed. Ian smiles, soft. “Why don’t we move this conversation somewhere a little more private, okay Amal?”

Nazari looks across the garage where his colleagues are working, then nods. Mickey frowns at Ian, but doesn’t say anything. Nazari leads them out back, into an empty parking lot. There’s no one around, and it’s fenced off from the street. Mickey takes out a cigarette and Nazari eyes him sourly. He gives Ian a wary look before turning to Mickey.

“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your friend,” he says.

“You’re not answering to me, you’re answering to him,” Mickey says dryly.

Nazari takes a deep breath and looks at Ian. He can’t meet his eye. “A buddy of mine gave me the stuff, said it was supposed to be good for partying, make sex easier for… for bottoms, and all that. Helped them relax. I thought it was just some kind of relaxant. I… I didn’t realise that it was… you know.”

“Didn’t have any problem trying to fuck him when he was passed out,” Mickey says, grinding his teeth together as he breathes out a stream of smoke.

Nazari runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “I… I’m sorry, all right. I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking straight. Just… don’t go to the cops, okay? They don’t need to get involved. It would be bad for both of us. Your friend could get prison time for assaulting me.”

Ian crosses his arms, smiling calmly. Next to him, Mickey is bouncing his leg, antsy, unsettled. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales shakily.

When neither of them say anything, Nazari clears his throat. “I mean, c’mon… you were coming onto me pretty hard. I wouldn’t have put it in your drink if I didn’t think you wanted it.”

“Oh you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Mickey lunges at Nazari but he scrambles back, holding up his hands.

“Woah, take it easy, man!”

“Mickey,” Ian says, putting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders. “You’re being charged with assault already.”

“Yeah, let’s give him a _real_ reason to fuckin’ press charges.” Mickey spits on the ground at Nazari’s feet. “Fuckin’ lowlife rapist.”

“Rapist?” Nazari echoes. “I’m not a fucking rapist, you piece of South Side trash.”

“This fucker,” Mickey snarls, but Ian holds him back.

“Let me take care of this, Mick,” he says. Mickey looks at him with a scowl, but nods.

Ian approaches Nazari, who looks relieved. “Listen—Ian, right? I’m sorry if I hurt you. You seem like a good guy. I was just drunk and acting stupid. I’ll… I’ll drop the charges against your friend. No lawsuit. We can just put this behind us, yeah?”

Ian tilts his head. “Sure, Amal. Let’s put this behind us.” He reaches into his jacket and takes out his knife. “I have a few conditions though,” he says, pressing the tip of the knife to Nazari’s throat.

“H-holy fuck,” Nazari breathes in shock, his eyes going wide. “What the fuck is this?”

“Ian,” Mickey hisses. “What are you doing?”

Ian glances at Mickey for a moment, smiling. “Helping.” He turns back to Nazari. “See, my friend here is probably going to lose his job because of you. So not only are you going to drop the charges against him, you’re also going to compensate him for lost wages.”

“The fuck is wrong with you!” Nazari says, his voice rising a pitch. “I’m not paying shit. I’ll—I’ll call the cops.”

Ian rolls his eyes and leans in, digging the knife into Nazari’s stomach. He whimpers, and Ian murmurs against his ear. “Do that. Go ahead. You don’t know anything about me. But I know exactly where you work. Where you live. See if they find me before I find you. Or maybe I’ll just gut you now. Can’t call the cops shit if you’re dead.” He can feel Nazari shaking. He draws back and holds the knife out, smiling. “So, about the severance pay. That’s two weeks’ salary, right Mick? How much would you say you earn from that job in a week?”

He glances at Mickey, whose eyes are wide. “I… I dunno. Couple hundred bucks?”

“We’ll say five hundred,” Ian says. “That’s one grand in two weeks. Plus benefits, the cost of finding a new job… let’s make it one and a half.”

“One and a half thousand dollars? For a fucking glorified security guard?”

Ian narrows his eyes. “I’ve changed my mind. Two thousand. You’re going to pay him two thousand dollars, by tomorrow morning, or I’m going to slice your throat open and watch you bleed to death right here in this parking lot. You won’t even have time to scream.”

Mickey is standing very still, his eyes fixed on Ian. Ian can’t read him. It’s not fear in his eyes. It’s… something else.

“I—I… okay,” Nazari says faintly. “Okay, Jesus. I—I’ll write a cheque. T-two thousand.”

Ian lowers the knife, and Nazari breathes a visible sigh of relief. “Good boy.”

Ian glances at Mickey as they follow a very shaken Nazari back inside. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Ian. His jaw trembles, like he’s angry. But… Ian doesn’t think it’s anger. He knows what anger looks like on Mickey. This is different. More.

When they get back to Ian’s place, Mickey has a crisp cheque for two-thousand dollars in hand. He hasn’t said a word since they left the shop, and the entire drive back, he stared firmly out the window.

“You want a drink?” Ian asks.

“How about ten?” Mickey says, slumping onto the sofa. “What the fuck was that, Ian? A fuckin’ _knife_?”

Ian sighs, abandoning the beers to sit next to Mickey. “He wasn’t listening to you. I had to improvise.”

“Oh, so you always just carry a knife around in your jacket? Just in case you need to shake down some North Side prick? He already said he’d drop the fuckin’ charges. You didn’t need to do that.”

Ian hums, nonchalant. “Got you two grand. Why are you complaining?”

Mickey eyes the cheque, rubbing his face with a laugh. “Jesus, I can’t fuckin’ cash this.”

“Why not? He’s too scared to go to the cops.”

“It’s not that, it’s… fuck, Ian. I can’t have you pulling shit like this on my account.”

Ian smiles at him. “You did it for me. And I didn’t even hurt him.”

“Would you have? If he hadn’t complied?”

Ian swallows, looking away with a laugh. “No of course not. It was a bluff.”

Definitely wasn’t a bluff. But he doesn’t think Mickey’s ready to hear that.

“What are you going to spend it on?” Ian asks, quickly changing the subject.

Mickey shakes his head, then laughs faintly. “Fuckin’ therapy.”

Ian swallows, touching his hand. His knuckles are purple with bruises. “Did I scare you, Mickey?”

Mickey shuts his eyes, then laughs faintly. “No, Ian. You didn’t scare me. You…” He looks at Ian, his gaze flicking to his mouth. “Fuck.”

Ian inches closer. “Tell me, Mickey.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I can’t. Ian… Christ, there’s gotta be something fuckin’ wrong with me.”

“You liked it.”

“ _Fuck_ , Ian.”

“I want you so badly, Mickey.”

Mickey shuts his eyes, breathing out. “Yeah.”

Ian isn’t sure which of them moves first.

Their hands are on each other, Mickey unzipping Ian’s jeans while Ian works on his belt. It’s rushed, feverish. Mickey’s breath is hot against Ian’s neck, and Ian shivers when he feels the wet flick of his tongue. He trails up Ian’s jaw.

When he reaches his mouth, Ian pulls back. “No kissing.”

Mickey blinks. “Um, okay.”

“Get your pants off. I want to suck your dick.”

Mickey’s cheeks are flushed. His fingers shake as he unbuttons his slacks and pulls them down around his ankles. Ian slips off the couch and gets on his knees, settling between Mickey’s thighs. He rubs Mickey through his briefs, making him groan softly.

“Bet you taste amazing,” Ian says, pushing Mickey’s briefs down and squeezing his cock.

“Yeah? Hurry up and find out.”

Ian wets his lips, grinning at Mickey as he thumbs the head of his cock, spreading the precum. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” he says, looking up.

Mickey tips his head back, stroking Ian’s hair. “Gonna fuck your pretty mouth.”

“God yes, Mickey,” Ian breathes.

Mickey presses the tip of his cock against Ian’s lips, pushing in the first few inches when Ian opens his mouth. He sighs, shutting his eyes. “Fuck. Feels as good as it looks.” He bucks his hips, gentle, letting Ian do most of the work.

Ian presses his palm against his own cock through his briefs. He resists the urge to touch himself. He needs to hold out. “Top or bottom?” he asks, pulling off Mickey.

“Fuck. Uh, dunno. Either. C’mon, don’t stop.” He tugs on Ian’s hair.

“Today you’re a bottom,” Ian says. “I want to feel how tight you are around my cock. I want to come with you clenching around me.” Mickey groans as Ian presses his tongue against the head of his cock, then swallows him.

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, just like that.” He thrusts into Ian’s mouth, shoving himself deep. When Ian coughs, he moans. “Fuck yeah, choke on it. Wanna ruin your pretty mouth. God you look so fuckin’ good sucking cock.”

Oh, Ian is well aware of that.

He can feel his own cock leaking, painfully hard. Mickey gives a soft groan of protest when Ian slides off him. He rubs his face, eyes closed. “Fuck. How’d I know you’d be good at that?”

“Glad it was on your mind,” Ian says as he climbs back onto the couch. “You use condoms?”

Mickey opens his eyes. “Yeah, obviously.”

Ian nods. “Go clean yourself up. I fuck hard.”

Mickey stares at him for a moment, swallowing heavily. “Oh Jesus. Yeah. Yeah okay.”

It takes everything Ian has not to touch himself while he waits for Mickey. He gets lube and condoms from his room and strips off his jeans, waiting for Mickey in the living room. When Mickey returns, he hesitates in the doorway, his eyes dropping to Ian’s crotch without an ounce of subtlety.

“Well, fuck.”

Ian squeezes lube onto his fingers as Mickey sits down. “Get on all fours.”

When Ian slips in the first finger, Mickey sighs, shifting back. He’s tight, but relaxes almost instantly. Ian smiles to himself. Instinctual bottom. He leans over Mickey, kissing the back of his neck as he works him open, gradually adding his other fingers.

He’s three fingers deep when Mickey’s breathing grows heavy. “Fuck, that feels so good. Want you inside me. Need that big cock of yours.”

A tremor runs through Ian. He presses himself against Mickey’s back, grinding his cock against his ass. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey hisses, pressing back into Ian. “I’m not begging. Just fuck me.”

Ian grins, dragging his teeth over Mickey’s shoulder as he pulls on the condom. He digs his fingers into Mickey’s hips as he sinks in the first couple of inches. Fuck. He’s going to have to concentrate very hard if he’s going to last.

“You feel so fucking good, Mickey,” he breathes, sinking deeper. “Oh fuck, you’re just taking me. I’m so deep.”

Mickey grips the arm of the sofa, gasping. “Fuck. Fuck, you’re so big. Feels so good. C’mon, fuck me like you mean it.”

Ian smiles, breathless, and thrusts all the way in. Mickey moans, using one hand to touch himself as Ian starts rocking into him.

“Yeah, that’s it, harder.”

“Rough? You want me to hurt you?” Ian purrs.

“ _Fuck_.” Mickey is pushing back into Ian, meeting each thrust. “Yeah, rough. Fuckin’ ruin me, Gallagher.”

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip hard to delay his climax. He wraps an arm around Mickey’s hips and sinks deep. Them he slams into him. Again. Over and over. Mickey cries out, his hand speeding up on his own cock. Ian grabs Mickey’s wrist and stops him. “Let me come first. You’re going to finish on my face.”

“ _Oh_ , fuck,” Mickey gasps, clinging to the arm of the sofa as Ian’s thrusts rock his whole body.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” Ian whispers. “Seeing me pull a knife on that guy.”

Mickey says nothing, but Ian feels him shiver.

“I liked it too,” Ian says, his voice rising a pitch as he nears his climax. “Watching you last night, I mean.” He takes Mickey’s hand, running his fingers over the bruised knuckles. “Knowing you were doing it for me. Seeing you so angry, so passionate, just for me. These bruises on your hands, just for me… _fuck_.” Ian holds Mickey tightly as he comes, shuddering, moaning.

He pulls out and turns Mickey over, closing his mouth over his cock and sinking down all the way.

“Ah, _fuck,_ Ian,” Mickey groans, bucking into his throat. “Fuck, I’m coming, I can’t…” Ian pulls off at the last moment, letting Mickey’s release spill across his face. Mickey’s fingers tangle in his hair and he holds Ian still, the head of his cock resting against Ian’s lips.

When he’s finished, he sinks back, gasping. “You look fuckin’ amazing with my come on your face.”

“I know.” Ian gets up and wipes his face with a tissue, pulling off the condom and tossing it. “Next time, you top. I want to see how long you last inside me.”

Mickey sits up, swallowing. “Ian, I… I think this should be a one time thing,” he says quietly.

Ian pauses, frowning. “What? Why?”

Mickey gets up slowly, grimacing. “I think we both needed this. Fuck, I know I did. All I’ve been fuckin’ thinking about the last few weeks.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem?”

Mickey puts on his pants and buttons his shirt, shaking his head. “The fuckin’ problem is that we bring out the worst in each other. I beat the living shit out of a guy for you. Jesus, you threatened to slit his throat just to get me a couple of grand! You… you’re dangerous. For me. I can’t… the things you make me want to do…”

Ian stands there, jaw trembling, fists clenched. “You _liked_ it. Don’t pretend you didn’t. It—it fucking turned you on.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey snaps, pulling on his jacket. “It was just sex. Didn’t mean anything.”

Ian tries not to flinch. “If it’s just sex then what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that you’re fuckin’ crazy, Ian!” As soon as he’s said it, Mickey shuts his eyes. “That’s… that’s not what I mean. I just…” He shakes his head, picking the cheque up off the coffee table. “I’m sorry, Ian. It just… it won’t work. This is for the best.”

Ian watches him walk away. “Enjoy your fucking two grand.”

Mickey turns around slowly. Deadpan, he tears the cheque in half and leaves.

Ian stands there for a few moments, breathing hard, trembling. He picks his beer bottle off the table and throws it against the wall, watching it shatter.

****

“Mickey made the right choice,” Miller says. “He knew what you were, beneath it all. He knew you were dangerous.”

Gallagher tilts his head, smiling. “Maybe. It didn’t last though, did it?”

Miller bites her tongue. She hates when he gets smug.

“Mickey could never stay away long,” Gallagher says, running his thumb over his knuckles. “He always came back.”


	5. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This is arguably one of Ian's worst chapters. He's extremely manipulative and exhibits behaviour typical of an emotionally abusive relationship. But he's also not completely mentally sound. Although he's not strictly bipolar in this fic, this is about as close as he comes to being manic. I've put more detailed warnings in the end notes, so please read them if you need to!

"You liked to charm your victims," Doctor Miller says. "Before you killed them."

"I prefer the term targets," says Gallagher. “And yes, I suppose I do have a sort of charm about me.”

Miller inhales, shutting her eyes briefly. "You wanted them to like you."

"Is that what they say?"

"Is it true?"

Gallagher contemplates for a moment. "It feels good to be wanted."

"So is that what it was with Mickey?"

He scoffs. "You think I wanted Mickey to like me so I could kill him?"

Miller’s hand is tight around her pen. "Did you?"

Gallagher laughs. "No. It wasn’t all a big murder plot. Sometimes sex is just sex."

"Then why get close to him? Just for sex?"

Gallagher wrings his hands together, his cuffs jangling. "It wasn't intentional."

"So it was different? What you were doing with him. It was different from your… targets."

Gallagher leans forward. He's chewing his bottom lip. "Do you want to know what it felt like? With my targets. Getting close to them."

He’s clearly avoiding the topic. He doesn’t want to talk about his feelings for Mickey. Any time she brings it up, he shuts her out. She should push, see if he cracks.

But maybe she should humour him. This could be a step in the right direction. Get him to talk about his targets, and he might reveal something about Mickey.

There’s also a small, dark part of her that’s curious. That wants to get inside his head.

Slowly, she nods. "Tell me."

Gallagher's smile sends a chill through her core.

****

They don't want him to kill this one. Not right away at least. He has information they want.

Daniel Rufus. He's a drug lord in Chicago. Very difficult to find, even more difficult to talk to. They only have one piece of useful information on him.

He likes young men. A lot. Ian is perfect for this job.

They need names from him. Two names. His associates in California. Just as powerful as he is. Ian doesn't know who needs the names—he doesn't ask. Bennett assigns him a target, and he follows through. No questions asked.

It's almost too easy to get close to this target.

Ian encounters him at an upscale gay club in Boystown. He knows how to catch a man's attention. Especially a man like Daniel Rufus.

Usually, when Ian wants to fuck, he’ll just ask. It works for him. Men like it when he’s direct, to the point. But this is different. This is a target. He'll take his time. Let the target come to him. Play hard to get, let them chase him.

Let the prey think they're the predator.

It feels good to be wanted. To allow the target to feel safe, until that final moment when they realise… and by then, there's a knife in their heart. Quite literally.

Ian meets Rufus' eye across the club. He's a handsome man. In his thirties, dark skin, thick stubble. Ian gives him a small smile, bites his lip, and looks away.

It doesn't take Rufus long to come over. He pays for Ian's drinks while Ian plays coy. He doesn't shut down his advances, but he makes deliberately feeble excuses. He needs to be up early tomorrow. He's supposed to be leaving soon. He doesn't normally do this with strangers.

Rufus isn't used to being turned down, so as predicted, he doesn't take a hint.

Not even when Ian says, "I have a boyfriend."

Rufus wets his lips. "That doesn't bother me."

_No_ , Ian wants to say. _It turns you on._

He can read it in Rufus' body language. He's close now, his hips almost touching Ian's. The smell of gin is strong on his breath. Ian swallows and closes his eyes. Pretends he's thinking about it. Then he gives Rufus a shy smile.

"Your place?"

He lets Rufus top. He bottoms, sometimes. Even when he doesn’t enjoy it. Like now. Rufus doesn't even ask. Ian gets the sense he doesn't often account for what his partners want. It doesn’t matter. Rufus could pin him to the bed and make him scream. He could hold Ian down, chain him up, gag him.

Ian would still be the one in control. He’s perfected the art of manipulation. It’s why these assignments are his favourite.

The next evening, Rufus invites him out for dinner. It's a classy restaurant. They drink expensive wine and Rufus asks what he does for a living. Ian has a cover story. Paramedic. He needs Rufus to feel safe around him. To see him as someone non-threatening. Someone he can trust.

When he asks Rufus the same question in return, he receives a vague non-answer about investment. An obstacle, but one he'd anticipated.

He's patient.

A week in, Rufus invites him to 'drinks with his colleagues'. Ian recognises a few faces from the case profile he was given. He doesn't take much notice of them. Not part of his job. There are only two names he's after.

It takes almost two months, but he gets there.

He's in bed beside Rufus, his body still aching, skin still slick. Rufus draws him into his arms and sighs against his neck.

"I think I'm in love with you."

The words send a burst of adrenaline through Ian.

"Oh, really?"

Rufus laughs, squeezing him. "Yeah, I think so. I know it's soon… you don't have to say it back."

They're not words Ian has ever said. They feel wrong in his mouth somehow, even as a lie. He can't conjure them.

"Sorry," he says with a demure smile. "I've never really been in a relationship like this…"

Rufus laughs, cupping his cheek. "You're sweet, Curtis."

Sweet. He's never been sweet. Of course, it's the part he's playing right now. The shy, young, naïve boy who likes to be taken care of. It's what Rufus likes. What most men with his power like, Ian has come to learn.

But it's most certainly not Ian.

"So, I'm having this dinner thing tomorrow," Rufus says as he gets dressed. "Kind of small, just a couple of close friends. They're visiting from LA."

Ian perks up. "LA? Long way to come for a dinner."

"Yeah, they're work colleagues. Well, more like business partners. We go way back. Been working together for years."

Ian smiles. While Rufus brushes his teeth, he sends off a quick text, informing Bennett that he's close.

"So you'll come?" Rufus asks, joining him in bed again.

"I'd be delighted," Ian says, kissing him.

They eat in Rufus' dining room. He even hires a personal chef to cater, and buys a very expensive bottle of champagne. These _are_ important guests.

Rufus introduces his colleagues. Dominic and Vivian. No last names, of course, but that's enough for Ian. They're here. He's done his job.

He sends a message to Bennett, then returns to dinner, pretending to engage in their idle conversations.

"So where did Danny find you?" Vivian asks, eyeing Ian up and down. She's a middle-aged woman wearing clothes that probably cost as much as a mortgage deposit.

"Not that awful place on Benson Street, I hope," Dominic says. "The last one he got from there left in the middle of the night with a pocketful of his grandmother's jewellery."

Rufus looks embarrassed. "That was just one time. And I got the jewellery back."

"The man only got to keep a couple of his fingers," Vivian tells Ian with a deliberate look.

"Jesus, stop trying to scare him off, Viv!" Rufus says. "I actually like this one." He gives Ian a smile, squeezing his thigh under the table.

"Parts of me," Ian says, earning laughter from both Rufus' friends.

They're about to carve the lamb when the front door slams open.

Vivian and Dominic jump up in alarm. They aren’t quick enough. A shot goes off, hitting the wall, but the two are easily wrestled to the ground by the seven or so people Ian's employer has sent.

Rufus reaches for his gun—he keeps it in a holster at his hip—but it isn't there. As Vivian and Dominic are hauled outside, he looks at Ian.

Ian turns the pistol over in his hand. He managed to slip it from the holster during dinner. Easy enough when Rufus was distracted by his wandering hands.

"Curtis…"

Ian watches Rufus' face, his heart racing. This is his favourite part. Seeing the betrayal, the hurt in their eyes. The realisation that they've been manipulated.

_You’re not the one in control. I am._

Rufus shakes his head in disbelief. "You…" It changes to anger. Hurt. "I fucking took care of you. I—I _loved_ you."

"Did you enjoy it?" Ian asks.

"I—what?"

"What we had. Did you like it? Did you like being with me?"

Rufus' jaw tightens. "Fuck you." He spits at Ian. "You lying piece of shit. Who are you working for? The Feds?"

Ian snorts. "Not that legal."

Rufus rubs the stubble on his face, pacing. "Donovan? You working for him? Huh?"

"I don't ask names," Ian laughs. "I just do what I'm paid to do."

"Which is?"

"Find out who your colleagues are. And then I get to do whatever I want with you."

It's at this moment that Rufus seems to remember the gun. His eyes flick between the weapon and Ian's face.

And this is the best part. Rufus still sees Ian as Curtis. A sweet-natured, demure paramedic who likes to be dominated and wears the nice clothes his boyfriend buys for him.

Rufus lunges at him.

A carefully placed kick and Ian fractures his ribs, winding him. Rufus chokes and collapses to his knees. He tries to gasp for breath, but it comes out as more of a groan.

Ian leaves him doubled over on the floor, picking up the carving knife, which is still lying next to the roast lamb on the table.

"Which would you prefer?" Ian asks, holding the gun and knife in either hand.

Rufus stares up at him in horror.

"Tell you what," Ian says. "Let's play a game." He tosses the gun across the room, and it goes sliding down the hallway. "If you can reach the gun before I stab you in the heart, you win."

For a moment, Rufus remains frozen on the spot, eyes wide. Then Ian takes a step forward and he scrambles away, crawling desperately towards the gun.

Ian takes his time, walking calmly after him. He can hear the desperation in Rufus' panicked huffs, the terror. When his hand closes around the gun, Ian grips him by the collar and drags him back.

With a cry, Rufus kicks out, making contact with Ian's stomach. Ian chokes as he's knocked to the floor, the air leaving his lungs. Rufus turns and aims the gun at him, pulling the trigger.

There's a click. Then nothing.

"Oh." Ian smiles and reaches into his blazer pocket, emptying a handful of bullets onto the floor. "My bad. Forgot to load it."

Rufus is breathing heavily, one hand clutching his chest, the other frantically pulling the trigger. "No. No, no, no! You fucking sick psychopath. I loved you. I fucking loved you. You have no idea what that means."

Ian shrugs. "Sorry, not really."

Rufus tries to hit him with the base of the gun but Ian is ready for him this time. He catches Rufus by the wrist and twists until he drops the gun with a yell.

Ian knocks him back and straddles his chest, keeping him pinned. "We had fun though, didn't we?"

Slowly, he drives the blade into Rufus’ chest, until he starts to gurgle and choke. Ian watches the blood fill his mouth, dribbling down his chin. Rufus’ struggles weaken and he goes limp, his head falling to the side.

Exhaling, Ian wrenches the knife out and wipes it clean on the table cloth. Blood pools around Rufus, soaking into the white faux fur carpet.

There’s always a rush, after a job. Where Ian feels invincible, clear-headed. He presses the knife against his arm, nicking the skin. A small bead of blood forms at the tip of the blade. Ian exhales shakily, turning his arm over and touching his wrist. His veins are blue through his pale skin.

He takes out his phone.

"Mickey? It's Ian.” He takes a deep breath, then fakes a sob. “I need your help. Please.”

Mickey finds Ian sitting on the curb. The knife is on the ground next to him, wet with his blood. He’s hugging his wrists to his chest, gritting his teeth through the pain. When he sees Mickey, his heart stammers.

Mickey gets out of the car and runs across the street. “Holy shit,” he hisses. “Ian—hey. Hey, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

Warm relief floods Ian as Mickey crouches next to him and puts his arms around him. Ian leans against his chest and shuts his eyes. Yes. _Yes._ Mickey can’t resist this. Helping him. It’s almost too easy.

“Let me see,” Mickey says, slowly pulling Ian’s hand away from his chest. Ian looks up and sees the horror in Mickey’s eyes. “Holy fuck. What did you do? Are you—what happened?”

“I don’t know… I just saw the knife and…”

Mickey sinks heavily to the ground next to him, putting his head in his hands. He inhales, staring ahead in silence. Ian knows what he’s thinking. He’s trying to decide how far he’s willing to go for Ian. Whether this is too much. It was a risk, Ian knows. Mickey could leave now. He’s always been unpredictable.

But Ian likes that about him. It makes this more fun.

He watches, waiting. Adrenaline pumps through him. He can’t look away from Mickey’s face.

Eventually, Mickey breathes out, his cheeks puffing. “All right. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

Ian shuts his eyes for a moment, breathing out. Mickey is here. It’s okay. He’s staying.

_Mickey can’t resist being a saviour._

Mickey helps Ian to his feet. He keeps a hand on Ian’s lower back as they walk to the car. “You cold?” Mickey asks, eyeing him anxiously. Ian is still wearing nothing but his slacks and dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. They’re coming up on January, and the air is icy.

He shakes his head. “Fine.” He should be cold, but more than anything, he’s numb. Still fuelled by adrenaline.

Mickey frowns. “Okay.” He opens the door for Ian. The familiar smell of pine and cheap cleaning products hits Ian as he climbs into the car. He leans against the window, hugging his wrists to his chest and closing his eyes.

When Mickey gets into the driver’s seat next to him, he reaches into the glove compartment and takes out a box of tissues. “Try to stop them from bleeding too much.” He frowns, eyeing Ian’s wrists. “Are they deep?”

Ian shakes his head.

Swallowing, Mickey leans back in the seat, wiping his hand across his face. “Why did you call me, Ian?”

Ian looks up at him. “I needed to see you.”

“Yeah but…” Mickey swallows. “You don’t have someone else? Family? A friend?”

“Aren’t we friends?”

“We haven’t seen each other in two months…” Mickey frowns, shifting in his seat.

Ian remembers. The last time they saw each other, Mickey slammed the door in his face. He can’t not remember.

“You were the first person I thought of,” Ian says, staring at his lap.

Mickey sighs, nodding. He turns the keys in the ignition and pulls onto the road.

Ian watches the city lights rush by as they drive. He feels dazed, lightheaded. Like he’s just waking up from a dream. Mickey keeps casting glances at him, like he’s afraid Ian might try and jump from the car. Frankly, it sounds sort of thrilling.

When they reach Ian’s apartment, Mickey walks close to him, resting his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Inside, he guides Ian to his bed then disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with soaked towels and antiseptic.

He cleans Ian’s wrists silently, a distressed furrow in his brow. Ian winces when he dabs the antiseptic into the cuts. “Sorry,” he mutters, biting his lip. When he’s done, he retrieves the first aid kit from the kitchen and wraps Ian’s wrists in bandages.

Once he’s finished, he sits back on the bed, exhaling heavily.

Ian lies down and moves close to Mickey, resting his head against his hip. “Thank you,” he says quietly. Mickey is still for a moment, then he puts his arm around Ian’s shoulders, shifting down to lie next to him.

“You good, Gallagher?”

Ian presses his head into Mickey’s chest. “You make me feel good.”

Mickey’s arm tightens around him and Ian smiles to himself. He looks up at Mickey. He’s watching Ian with the same intensity he had they slept together. Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s thigh and leans up, pressing his lips against Mickey’s neck.

Mickey pulls away sharply. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Ian flinches. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Mickey stares, shaking his head. “Ian… you can’t. We—we can’t.”

Ian’s jaw trembles. He swallows and looks away, biting his lip. “I thought…”

“You thought I’d screw you because you fuckin’ cut yourself?”

Ian pulls away sharply. There’s ice in his veins. “Go fuck yourself.” He gets out of bed and walks to the window, breathing hard. Rain trickles down the glass. He can see his hazy reflection, pale, cold.

“I should go,” Mickey says quietly. “Look, you shouldn’t be alone right now. But… I can’t be the person who’s here for you, okay? I’ve got my own shit to deal with and you’re… you’re too fucking complicated, Gallagher.”

“Go then,” Ian whispers, clenching his fists. His wrists sting. He doesn’t feel light anymore. It’s as if Mickey’s pulled him down from his high and crushed him into the ground.

“Okay.” Mickey hesitates at the door, looking back sombrely. “Look, I… I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want you to think that I don’t…”

“It’s fine, Mickey.” Ian turns around, plastering on a smile. “It’s fine. You can go.”

“Ian, maybe I should—”

“I don’t need your fucking pity, Mickey. Just leave.”

Mickey sighs, shaking his head. “Look, it’s not pity. I just—”

“ _Leave._ Before I fucking hurt you.”

This is what Ian does. When people don’t behave the way he wants them to. When targets don’t comply or succumb to his manipulation. He ends it.

His gun is in the dresser, just a few feet away. It would be so easy…

“Okay,” Mickey says quietly. “Okay, I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

Ian shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to kill Mickey. Not really.

The realisation shocks him a little. Especially since Mickey has made it abundantly clear he has no interest in fucking him.

Ian listens to his footsteps fade and waits for the sound of the front door closing before he moves. His body trembles with adrenaline, still spurred on by the pain in his wrists. He goes to his dresser and takes his gun from the drawer. Pulling on a jacket, he heads out.

Amal Nazari is alone when Ian finds him. He’s closing up the shop, toolbox in hand. He puts it down to lock the garage door.

“Hello Amal.”

He jumps, spinning around. “Who—” He freezes when he sees the gun in Ian’s hand, and his eyes go wide with recognition. “You’re—you’re the kid. The one who…” He swallows, shaking his head. “I… I gave your friend the money and dropped the charges. I—I don’t know what…”

Ian just watches him as he struggles for words. He clicks the safety off his gun.

“P-please,” Nazari whimpers. “Please, I can… I can get more money. I can—I can get you a lot of money. Anything. Please…”

Ian sighs as Nazari babbles. “I don’t want your money, Amal. I want you to die.”

He pulls the trigger, putting a bullet in his skull. Nazari is dead before he hits the ground.

Ian sits down on the curb, exhaling. He wipes his face and his hand comes away streaked in blood. Nazari’s blood, but his own is starting to seep through the bandages on his wrists. Beside him, Nazari stares unseeingly at the black, starless sky. Rain falls, freezing, and washes away the blood pooling around his skull. Ian leans back and closes his eyes.

This feels right.

****

“You faked a suicide attempt to manipulate him.”

Miller stares at Gallagher in disgust. He’s looking at his hands, oddly reserved.

“It wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

“No, but you made him think it was!”

Gallagher frowns, shaking his head slowly. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. But I didn’t lie to him. I did need him.”

Miller sucks in a breath, trying to calm herself before speaking. “You just needed someone to manipulate. To control.”

Gallagher shrugs, not denying it. “Maybe. Maybe I just needed someone to care about me.”

Miller draws short, taken off guard. “But you—that doesn’t make sense.” She can’t find the right words. “You don’t… you don’t care about people.”

“No. Doesn’t mean I don’t need them to care about me.”

Miller hesitates. “Then you’re selfish.”

Gallagher laughs. “Never said I wasn’t.”

“That’s why you needed your victims to like you,” Miller realises. “No one loves you, so you get it from the people you kill.”

Gallagher’s smile fades. It’s a pretty cheap shot, but Gallagher is handcuffed. And Miller isn’t particularly worried about hurting his feelings.

“What about Amal Nazari?” she asks. “Why kill him?”

Gallagher shrugs. “I was bored.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. I think you felt powerless. Like a victim.”

Gallagher stiffens. “I wasn’t a fucking victim.”

“You killed him because he made you feel like one. You thought he was the reason you couldn’t control Mickey. But you just couldn’t control Mickey because he saw through your bullshit.”

It’s speculation, but judging by the tremble in Gallagher’s jaw, Miller has hit the mark. “I killed him because it made me feel _good,_ ” Gallagher spits.

Miller frowns. “Did it?”

Gallagher exhales and looks away without another word.

It appears Miller has reached her daily quota of A Brief History of Ian Gallagher’s Feelings. It’s almost a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Self-harm, suicidal behaviour, using self-harm as a form of emotional manipulation and controlling behaviour.


	6. You're kind of a dick, Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for manipulative behaviour and Ian being his usual dickish self. Also Ian/OMC - it's a little more graphic than normal, if that's not your thing. Honestly one of the more lighthearted chapters. Ian only murders like, one person!

"Tell me about Kyle Lang."

By the way his smile fades, Miller can tell she's thrown Gallagher off. He rolls his eyes. "What about him?"

"You dated."

"So?"

"You can’t form intimate connections with other people. But you were with him for over a year. Why?"

Gallagher wets his lips, laughing. "I guess I was just bored."

"What was he to you?"

"An easy fuck." Gallagher is dismissive, but he's avoiding Miller's eye.

"That all?" Gallagher shrugs. "So your relationship with him had nothing to do with Mickey Milkovich?"

"Oh please. What? You think I was dating him because I wanted to make Mickey jealous? Am I that much of a cliché to you?"

She's struck a sore spot. Gallagher doesn't like to be stereotyped. He wants to feel different. Dating is too ordinary, too normal. He doesn't like that she's brought this one up.

"Tell me about him," she insists. "He's the only man you dated—really dated—apart from Mickey."

Gallagher looks irritated. "Mickey and I didn't date."

Well, that’s certainly up for debate. A can of worms for another time, Miller thinks. "Okay. So what was so special about Kyle Lang?"

"Absolutely nothing. He was extremely ordinary."

"You were with him for over a year."

"Call it an experimental phase."

Miller puts down her pen. This is the first time she's asked him to talk about someone other than Mickey Milkovich. And he's resisting.

"Tell me about that year," she says. "What was it like dating someone? Can't be easy for a psychopath."

He laughs. It's almost hysterical. "What's it like for a psychopath to date a perfectly ordinary person? It's fucking awful."

"Why is that?"

He stares at her as if she's stupid. "You're the doctor, you tell me."

She nods. "Okay, I'll give it a shot. My guess is… you couldn't give back what he gave you. And that made you feel…"

"See, that's your problem. You assume I feel anything."

"So I'm wrong? Tell me, then. Why didn't it work out?"

Gallagher raises an eyebrow. "Because I'm a fucking psychopath."

****

Ian meets Kyle Lang on the job, of all places.

Ian is serving drinks at a charity benefit hosted by his target—a small local politician trying to boost her public reputation. Bourgie and sickeningly polite are the only words Ian can use to describe it.

The job itself is fairly straightforward. All he has to do is slip a few milligrams of ricin into the politician's champagne every time he serves her. He's practiced enough to do it without drawing attention to himself, and the target is drunk enough that she finishes every drink Ian brings her way. All in all, a successful operation.

Except that Lang takes notice of him.

Lang is an Asian man in his late twenties. He's mastered the 'wealthy but deliberately unkempt' look; his hair a little too long, his stubble growing out, but a suit worth a few years of food stamps.

He summons Ian at around eleven o'clock, when everyone is a little tipsier than they should be, and people are starting to drift into the private rooms. Ian tops up Lang’s drink with a customary smile, but when he turns to leave, Lang puts a hand on his arm. "Stay a moment, Ian."

Ian curses Bennett for not having a fake identity ready for him on time. He doesn't like using his real name on the job, especially when it's printed on a name badge. Not that it really matters. To most of the people here, he’s invisible.

But not Lang.

"I should really get back to my manager, it's almost time for clean up," Ian says with a polite smile.

"Well I'm a very high maintenance guest demanding your presence. I'm sure your manager won't mind."

Ian narrows his eyes, but Lang smiles at him. "Fine."

"Why don't you sit down?" He holds out his hand. "I'm Kyle. Kyle Lang."

Ian eyes his hand for a moment before shaking it. "I know who you are.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“No, it’s printed on your nameplate.”

Lang glances at it, smiling. “Ah.”

“But since you’re here, I have to assume you’re rich.”

Lang grins, eyebrows raised. “Straight to the point, huh? That why you come to these things? To entice horny rich bachelors?”

“Funny. If I wanted to entice horny rich bachelors I’d work at a strip club. And honestly—been there, done that. The money wasn’t as good as you’d think.”

Lang looks equal parts impressed and amused. “Ex-stripper? Unlucky that we didn’t meet earlier. And what is it that you do now?”

Ian hums, flicking his name badge. “Well, I have been pouring you drinks all night, so take a wild guess. And since you’re the wealthy one, I should probably ask you the same question. I’m not being hit on by a drug lord, am I?”

Lang laughs. "Hardly. I own a tech business based here in Chicago. Nothing to brag about."

"It kind of sounds like you are bragging."

"Well, I am trying to impress you."

Ian raises an eyebrow. "With money? Or charm?"

Lang takes a sip of his drink. “The money thing is usually more effective. Unless you think I’m charming?”

“Stick to the money.”

Lang laughs, warm and genuine. "Fair enough."

Around the hall, people are wandering off. The staff have begun to tidy up the dishes and empty champagne glasses. Ian sees his target being escorted away by her security personnel. She's talking loudly and stumbling a bit. They likely won't realise it's poison and not just alcohol until it's too late. Ian gives her a day at most.

"I have to ask, Ian, how old are you?" Lang gives him an apologetic smile. "Just want to make sure I'm not about to do something illegal."

"Nineteen," Ian says, hoping his real age will scare the man off.

"Good. You have a fake ID?"

Ian laughs. "Your loyalty to the law is very fickle."

Lang shrugs. "Well, I don't mind buying you drinks, but I do draw the line at statutory rape. So is that a yes?"

"To drinks or sex?"

"Both?"

Oddly, Ian is intrigued. He doesn't mind toying with wealthy middle-aged men when it suits him. They aren't always bad at sex, and it's fun having them eat out of his palm.

Lang is a little different. He's a lot younger than most of the men Ian likes to play with, and he isn’t a target. And he’s actually interested in Ian… just Ian. Not a role he’s playing—not some staged character built to seduce.

It’s not as if men have never been interested in Ian before—plenty have. But for once, Ian might be a little interested in return.

After all, he hasn't spoken to Mickey in weeks.

"Fine," he says at last. "Get me drunk enough and I might just suck you off."

Lang looks more amused than anything. That irritates Ian. "I'd much rather fuck you," Lang says.

"I'm a top."

"Fine by me. I'm a switch."

Ian narrows his eyes. "I also only drink top shelf whiskey."

"Okay."

"And I don't kiss."

Lang hesitates. "See, there we might have a problem."

Ian smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Dealbreaker?"

"Oh, not at all. I'll just have to wear you down."

Rolling his eyes, Ian stands up. "Okay then, fine. Let me change then I’ll help burn a hole in your wallet."

The place Lang takes him to is upscale, trendy, and a little crowded. Ian shivers when they step out of Lang's Mercedes. He's only wearing a light sweater—not enough for February.

"Cold?" Lang takes off his jacket and puts it around Ian's shoulders.

Ian scoffs. "What am I, your boyfriend?"

"Not yet." Lang winks at Ian as he hands the bouncer a wad of bills that lets them skip the queue.

The inside smells clean, like vanilla and expensive cologne. Even in his line of work, Ian isn't used to places like this. Now that they're in, it doesn't feel as crowded. They must be turning away a lot of people at the door. Probably ask to see a bank account balance before permitting entry.

"Top shelf whiskey, was it?" Lang asks, leading Ian to the bar.

"Whatever costs you the most," Ian says coolly.

For all Ian's reluctance, it turns out to be a fairly pleasant night. Especially at around two when they find a dark corner of the bar to jerk each other off.

Kyle presses Ian against the wall, scrambling to undo his zipper. "You sure I can't kiss you?" he breathes, his mouth on Ian's jaw.

"Fucking positive," Ian says, wrapping his hand around Kyle's cock. Kyle moans softly, returning the gesture. His hand is warm and soft—and very practiced.

Ian is tipsy enough that he's lost a lot of his earlier inhibitions about humouring Kyle. He nips the lobe of his ear and wraps both their cocks in his fist.

"Wonder how many people can see what we're doing—don't turn around." He cups Kyle's face when he tries to look over his shoulder. "Think they're enjoying it?"

"Oh fuck, Ian. Probably. I have a good ass."

Ian brushes his lips over Kyle's jaw, teasing him. "I’ll put that to the test later. Now hurry up. I want to feel your come on my hands."

Kyle groans, threading his fingers through Ian's hair as he comes. Ian follows, digging his nails into Kyle’s arms. He leaves deep red marks.

Kyle laughs as he zips himself up. "Holy fuck. I feel like I should be paying you or something."

Ian isn't quite sure what comes over him—maybe it's boredom. Or curiosity. Or just a deep, buried need to feel wanted. But he finds himself saying, "You could pay me by buying me dinner."

Kyle's face lights up. "Yeah?"

Ian shrugs. "Sure, why not." He doesn't think he's ever been on a date. Not a real one, at least, where he wasn't trying to con a target.

He's bored. Mickey is a dead end (for now). That doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy himself.

As it turns out, 'dating' involves a lot of talking. About oneself. Ian has to keep reminding himself that this is real. He doesn't have a cover identity he has to stick to. He's just… Ian Gallagher.

Just being Ian Gallagher is proving to be more difficult than he would have thought.

"So what do you do for work when you're not catering at snobby charity galas?" Kyle asks.

Ian stirs his carbonara around the plate. "Between jobs," he says.

"Doing…?"

Ian shrugs. "Whatever there is."

Kyle gives him a dubious look. "Vague. Okay. What about your family? Any siblings?"

"A lot."

"Oh, cool. I have a younger sister, but that's it. Where do you fall?"

"Middle child," Ian says. He takes a bite of his food so he doesn't have to say anything else. He doesn't think about his family often. He hasn't spoken to them in years. No one stayed in contact after he left. He was fifteen.

"What about your parents?"

Ian huffs. "Drug addicts and alcoholics. They weren't there most of our lives and when they were, they were stealing our money and our food."

"Oh." Kyle looks uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for bringing it up. Didn't realise it was a touchy subject."

Ian frowns. "It's not. I don't care."

"O-okay."

"Tell me about your job," Ian says, taking a sip of his wine. The bottle is sitting in the middle of their table. Ian only glanced at the wine list, but he's pretty sure this bottle is worth more than the suit he's wearing.

Kyle looks relieved at the change of subject. "Oh, well it's a tech business, like I told you. We mostly specialise in software. Like new apps and information systems—that sort of thing."

Ian can't pretend he's terribly interested, so he just nods.

It's a relief when the dinner ends and they head back to Kyle's place. It's an expensive three-bedroom that takes up virtually the whole top floor of his building.

Ian only really sees the master bedroom that night.

"Fuck, how did I know you'd be good at that?" Kyle breathes as Ian pulls the condom off. "I really hope this isn't the last time we fuck."

"Is that you asking me out again?" Ian is already getting dressed.

"Yeah, if you're interested." His smile fades a little as Ian puts his shoes on. "You're welcome to stay the night, you know."

"Stay the night?" Ian glances at him. "Do you want to fuck again?"

Kyle sits up in bed. He has a nice body. Big and soft. Ian wouldn’t mind fucking him again. "I mean, if you want to. But I more meant… you know. We sleep together. I cook you breakfast in the morning. That sort of thing?"

Ian smirks. "I can make my own breakfast."

"Right… I know." Kyle looks disappointed.

Sighing, Ian kicks his shoes off and strips, climbing back into bed. "Well fine, I'll stay if it gets you to shut up.”

Kyle grins. "Yeah?" He sinks back beneath the covers and wraps his arms around Ian's waist.

Ian squirms, prying him off. "No cuddling. I'm not a stuffed animal."

Kyle laughs, lifting his hands apologetically. "All right, we'll work up to it. And please tell me 'stuffed animal' wasn’t an innuendo."

Ian snorts, shaking his head. "Goodnight, Kyle."

"Night, Ian."

Kyle drifts off within minutes, but Ian struggles to sleep. He's never shared a bed with anyone who wasn't family or a target. He doesn't know how he feels about it. He'll have to set some boundaries, if he and Kyle are going to be dating regularly.

They've been together about two months when Ian sees Mickey again.

He and Kyle are at a club closer to the South Side. One of the seedier places. Kyle wasn't so keen the first time they came here, but Ian likes it. It's familiar and comfortable. Not like the classy, opulent places Kyle likes to go. He can drink beer here without being looked down on.

Also, Mickey works here. He left that part out when he introduced Kyle to the place.

Ian is getting them drinks at the bar when he spots him, just a few feet away. He's wearing a leather jacket over his plain black shirt and jeans, and there’s a drink in his hand. On break, then.

It's been three months since he found Ian at the side of the street with bloody wrists. Since he rejected Ian’s advances and called him complicated.

Ian doesn’t want him any less.

Mickey looks up and catches his eye. He freezes, his mouth opening. Ian smiles, giving Mickey a once-over. Mickey's familiar scowl returns and he rolls his eyes.

Ian moves closer, leaning against the bar beside him. "Fancy seeing you here. Following me?"

"Only one of us has a history of stalking the other, Gallagher, and it ain't me."

Ian grins. "I've missed you."

Mickey looks away. "Yeah? That makes one of us."

Ian scowls and folds his arms, leaning against the bar. “I have a boyfriend now, you know.”

Mickey glances at him before staring at the ground. “Congratulations. You want a medal?”

“He’s nice. Takes me out to dinner. Buys me stuff. All that.”

Mickey snorts. “He your boyfriend or your grandma?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “We fuck a lot. How is your wife, by the way?”

Mickey’s amusement fades and he tips back his drink. “I hope you get stabbed again.”

Ian grins. This is the Mickey he likes. “I would, but you’d just show up and save my life. It’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, kind of like emotionally manipulating people is your thing?”

Ian laughs. “I don’t—”

"Hey babe, everything okay?"

Ian tenses at the touch of Kyle's hand on his back. Damn it.

He turns around slowly. "Everything's great. _Babe_."

Kyle looks at Mickey with a tight smile. "Who is this?"

"Uh, I'm just an old friend," Mickey says, avoiding Kyle's gaze.

"We used to fuck," Ian says pleasantly.

Kyle's face falls. "Oh. Really."

"Once," Mickey corrects. “We fucked once.” He looks at Ian, his eyes cold.

"Well, I'm Kyle. Ian's boyfriend." Kyle holds out his hand stiffly.

Mickey looks at it but doesn't take it. "Right. Well, um. I should head off. Break’s finishing soon." With a sparing glance in Ian's direction, he disappears into the crowd.

"Nice guy," Kyle says sourly.

Ian nods. His heart is fluttering excitedly. "Yes, Mickey is loads of fun." He scans the crowd, but Mickey is nowhere in sight.

"You know Ian, you can be kind of a dick sometimes," Kyle says, frowning.

Ian looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "What are you getting all sulky about now? Come on, let's sit down somewhere." He picks up two fresh cocktails from the bar, ignoring the irritated woman who tries to stop him. He finds a table on the other side of the room.

Kyle sits next to him without a word. He sips the stolen cocktail, frowning.

"You've never talked about your exes," he says at length.

Ian shrugs. "Don't have any."

"Mickey's not an ex? Because the way you were acting…"

“It was just a one-night stand," Ian says dismissively.

Kyle sighs, shaking his head. "Must have been a hell of a fuck. The way he was looking at you…"

Ian eyes him. "Are you jealous?"

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Kyle's usual humour is absent from his tone. He's serious, his brow furrowed.

Ian laughs in disbelief. "I'm…"

Kyle sighs. "Why do you act like this, Ian?"

Ian blinks. "Like what?"

"Like you're… unattainable. Like everyone else is just there for you to use and throw away, but you're just out of reach. Above the rest of us. You keep taking, but what do you give back?"

Ian rolls his eyes. "Jesus, you get that out of a self-help book?"

Kyle nods slowly, his jaw tight. "Okay." He lets out a slow breath. "I think I'm going to get another drink."

He stands up and walks away. Ian sighs. It's tiring trying to keep up with Kyle sometimes. He expects Ian to read his moods as if he's a shrink.

Finishing his cocktail, Ian gets up and heads to the bathroom.

When he pushes open the door, Mickey is standing at the sink. He looks up, frowning when he sees it's Ian.

"What do you want, Gallagher?" he sighs.

Ian locks the door behind him. The stalls are empty. It's just the two of them.

"What do you think I want?" he says. He leans in, his lips brushing Mickey's ear. "We can be quick. I bet I could make you come in under a minute."

Mickey's knuckles are white around the edge of the sink. "Don't you have a boyfriend for that now?" he says.

Ian laughs. "Don't worry about him."

"Ian…"

"Get your pants off." Mickey doesn't move. Ian looks at him impatiently. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, there’s a fucking problem, you manipulative piece of shit.”

Ian flinches, but quickly recovers. “Still angry with me, I take it?”

Mickey stares at him in disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Gallagher? You’re—you’re such a fucking dick.”

“Jesus Christ—you sound like Kyle.”

Mickey sighs. “No shit? I sound like the boyfriend you’re trying to cheat on? You’re… you’re pathetic.”

There’s pity in his eyes. Ian hates it.

“You love him?” Mickey asks. It doesn’t even sound like a jealous question, just curiosity.

“No.” For some reason, Ian doesn’t feel proud when he admits it.

“Didn’t think so,” Mickey says. “Have you ever loved anyone? In your life?” Ian looks away, scowling. “Yeah. Anyone ever loved you, Gallagher?”

Ian looks at him sharply, jaw trembling. “Fuck you.”

“I’m serious. I mean, look at you. You use people, you try to control them, manipulate them. But what do you get from it? Sex? Power?”

“Shut up,” Ian says through clenched teeth. He doesn’t care either way. He _shouldn’t._ He hates how much Mickey affects him. How much Mickey’s words mean to him.

“You’re gonna die alone, Gallagher. And who’s gonna attend your funeral?” Mickey leans in and Ian holds his breath. “No one. Because no one gives a shit about you.”

Ian stands rooted to the spot as Mickey leaves, letting the bathroom door slam shut behind him. For a few moments, he doesn’t move. _He never cries._ Yet when he turns and sees his reflection, his eyes are glittering. He splashes his face with water and storms out of the bathroom.

Mickey is at the bar with a tall woman—the Russian one. Svetlana. Mickey’s wife. Mickey’s wife who cares about him enough that she visits him at work. His wife who he spends more time with than Ian.

Mickey catches his eye and Ian looks away quickly, biting down on his tongue.

He spots Kyle at the other end of the bar and walks over. Kyle turns. "Hey, Ian—"

“I’m sorry.”

Kyle blinks. “Okay.”

“For being… a dick.” Ian forces the words out, a lump in his throat. He doesn’t feel like he should be apologising. He _isn’t_ sorry. But, Kyle is upset. And Mickey is in his fucking head and Ian needs to get him out.

“Thanks,” Kyle says uncertainly. “For apologising. I appreciate it.”

Ian nods, looking down. He can see Mickey, watching him from across the room. “Do you…” He swallows, taking a deep breath before he can get the words out. “Do you care about me, Kyle?”

Kyle frowns, nodding. “Yes, I care about you.”

“Would you care if I died?”

“If you died? Jesus, of course I would. What’s gotten into you, Ian? Are you okay? What—"

Ian cuts him off by kissing him. Kyle gasps against his mouth, freezing for a moment before he reciprocates. Ian doesn’t try to deepen the kiss. It’s chaste, ordinary. It doesn’t feel like anything. It doesn’t _make_ Ian feel anything. When he pulls away, Kyle is beaming.

“Shit. You know, that’s the first time you’ve ever kissed me. Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

Over Kyle’s shoulder, Ian sees Mickey. He’s standing frozen, fist tight around his drink, jaw trembling. “Yeah,” Ian says, smiling at Kyle. “Yeah, I’m great.” He swallows. This is overwhelming. He hasn’t done this before.

He resorts to what he knows best.

“Hey, wanna fuck me on the backseat of your car?”

Kyle’s face lights up. “Uh, yes please.”

Ian follows him across the room, hesitating when they reach the door. He looks back and finds that Mickey is still watching him. Smiling, Ian lifts his middle finger.

_Fuck you, Mickey. People do fucking care about me._


	7. ASPD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Underage drinking, implied past sex between a minor and adults, (potentially inaccurate) depiction of the mental health care system.

Miller doesn't particularly want to hear the rest of the Kyle Lang story. She already knows how it ends. The same way most of Gallagher's relationships end.

But she needs to know what happened. It's obvious from Gallagher's story that he and Kyle weren't a fit. But she needs to know what happened in between. Where did it go south? Why did Gallagher snap?

Was Mickey Milkovich involved?

"Did you see Mickey again after that?" she asks.

"Here and there," Gallagher says. "Not as much as I'd have liked."

"And did anything happen between you two? While you were still with Kyle."

Gallagher shakes his head. "Mickey was very stubborn, you know."

"So you've said."

"He just ignored me, mostly. I don't think he liked that I had a boyfriend."

"Is that why you killed Kyle? Because of Mickey?"

Gallagher laughs. It's dry and unsettling. "No, I killed Kyle because he tried to fix me."

****

Ian studies his reflection. Kyle has styled his hair for him and picked out his suit. It's dark grey and makes his freckles stand out. Ian looks respectable.

It's a little unnatural.

"Okay, so I double-checked the reservation for the restaurant and now they're telling me they overbooked for the first floor so we've been moved upstairs." Kyle comes hurrying in, searching through his wardrobe and desk drawers. "Fuck, where did I leave my car keys?"

"Kitchen," Ian says, still looking at his reflection.

"Shit—I forgot to ask if they have vegetarian dishes without nuts. You know my mother is extremely allergic, if she even smells an almond—"

"You're rambling," Ian says. "Just relax. I've met your parents before. I already know they hate me."

Kyle takes a deep breath, then laughs. "They don't hate you…" Ian looks at him, deadpan. "Well, maybe a little. It's not your fault. They never like my boyfriends. Polite homophobia and all." He sighs and rests a gentle hand on Ian’s shoulder. "I know I'm overreacting a little."

"A little?"

"It's always like this with my parents. Doesn't matter what I do, they're always going to find something to give me shit for. Fuck, I still need to find a way to tell them about the layoffs I had to make in the programming department last month. Not to mention, Catherine is going to be there. I'm supposed to be a role model for her."

Ian takes his hand, rubbing his knuckles gently. "Rambling."

"Sorry."

Ian dabs cologne under his chin. "It must be great to have a family who actually gives a shit."

"Right. Forgot yours abandoned you."

"It's fine. I abandoned them first." Ian pulls on his suit jacket and walks into the living room. "Hurry up, or we're going to be late."

Kyle scoffs. "Since when do you care about being on time?"

"Since I need at least three drinks in me before I can start talking to your father."

When they arrive at the restaurant, Kyle's sister and parents are already waiting for them. His father is a short, greying man with a stern look that never fades. His mother is tall and slim, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She's wearing enough diamonds to light a stadium.

Ian hasn't met his sister before. She looks young, but she's dressed just as lavishly as her mother. She smiles at Ian.

"You’ve kept the teenage boyfriend, Kyle," Mrs. Lang observes.

"You look lovely this evening, mother," Kyle says as he kisses her cheek. "And—Ian just turned twenty."

He needs them to know that. Always seeking approval. Ian can't imagine sucking up to Frank or Monica the way Kyle does with his parents. It almost makes him laugh.

"Hi Ian, I'm Catherine." Kyle's sister holds out her hand and Ian shakes it. It earns him cold looks from both Kyle's parents.

"How is the company, Kyle?" Mr. Lang asks.

"Well, it's um. It's good." Kyle looks desperately at Ian. "It's just…"

"Why don't we go sit down?" Ian interjects. "Get started on the wine." Kyle shoots him a grateful smile.

"Yes, I agree with the boy," Mrs. Lang says, her diamond earrings glinting as she turns. "Something tells me Kyle's news about his company is going to call for a few drinks."

The dinner goes as well as can be expected when it comes to Kyle's parents. Ian spends the evening making passive-aggressive remarks about Kyle's father, while the man opts to outright insult him in return. Kyle's mother comments on her son's weight, and hairline, and virtually anything about his appearance she can pick out.

Catherine is quiet for most of the evening, picking at her food and sipping her water. She reminds Ian of himself a little. Not that his family dinners were anything like this, but he knows what it feels like to fall under the radar while your siblings get all the attention.

When dinner is over, Kyle's parents excuse themselves.

"We have a few business meetings to attend in the morning," his mother says. "I assume you'll have no trouble letting Catherine stay with you for the night?"

Kyle looks surprised. "Uh, yeah of course. We've got a couple of guest rooms."

"Good. We'll come and pick her up tomorrow evening." Mrs. Lang kisses her daughter goodbye and gives her son a nod. She doesn't acknowledge Ian.

"We'll discuss these new developments in your company further tomorrow, Kyle," Mr. Lang murmurs before joining his wife.

"Lovely seeing you again, dad," Ian says, silently preening at the outraged look on Mr. Lang's face.

"You know he hates it when you call him that," Kyle says, watching his parents disappear downstairs.

Ian smiles. "I know."

Kyle sighs, then turns to his sister. "So how you been, Cath? Couldn't get a word in at dinner with mom and dad breathing down my neck."

Catherine rolls her eyes. "Assholes. Thank God I’m staying with you tonight. Do you know how painful it is living with them?" Catherine is visibly calmer now that her parents are gone.

"Did it for eighteen years," Kyle says. "You met Ian, right?"

Catherine nods, beaming at him. "The first time I heard mom and dad bitching about you, I knew you were a good one."

Ian grins, glancing at Kyle. "Glad to know I got under their skin."

"So uh, you two ready to head home?" Kyle asks.

"It's only ten," Ian says. "We could grab a drink."

Kyle and Catherine exchange a glance. "Ian, Catherine is underage."

"So? I am too. They never card."

"She doesn't drink." Kyle is frowning. Catherine just looks embarrassed.

"It's fine, Kyle. I won't have anything."

"There you go," Ian says. "Come on. I need to reward myself for sitting through an entire dinner with your parents."

Sighing, Kyle concedes. "Fine. But you are not leaving my sight, Cath, you got it?"

She nods, looking excited.

They stop at a bar a few blocks away from Kyle's apartment. It's mid-tier. Expensive, but not sell-your-kidney expensive. They don't seem to mind that Catherine looks about fifteen, though it may have something to do with the crisp handful of bills Kyle hands them on the way in.

They find a table at the centre of the room and Kyle goes to the bar to order drinks for himself and Ian.

"So how long are you in town?" Ian asks.

"Only a few days, then we’re heading back to Vietnam," Catherine says, sounding dejected. "I grew up in LA, but I still haven't been back. Mom and dad don't normally let me join them for business trips. Want me living close to family and all that bullshit."

"Why not leave? Move here. I'm sure you have the money."

Catherine looks taken aback. "I—I couldn't just—imagine what they'd think! They’d never let me."

Ian laughs. "I can't imagine what it would feel like to have parents who give a shit. I left home when I was fifteen. Don't think my dad even noticed."

"Wow, I'm… sorry."

Ian shrugs. "I don't care. It got me here."

Catherine shakes her head. "I can't even imagine… how did you get by on your own?"

"By sucking off married men behind a nightclub."

Catherine gapes. "When you were _fifteen?_ "

"Well I was sixteen by then."

"That's… that's messed up! Are you, like… okay?" She glances at the bar. "Does my brother know about this?"

Ian considers for a moment. "Not sure if I've mentioned it to him."

"You say that like you're talking about taking chicken out of the freezer for dinner."

Ian frowns. "How should I be talking about it?"

Catherine stares at him, then a laugh breaks out of her. "You're… you're kind of insane, you do know that right?"

Ian grins. Before he can respond, Kyle returns with their drinks. "Sorry, took forever to get the bartender's attention. Pretty sure she was sapphic for the chick in front of me.” He glances between them. “What’s so funny?"

Ian sips his gin and tonic, eyeing Catherine. "Um, nothing," she says, avoiding Kyle's gaze. “Ian was just telling me about some of his old jobs.”

"Oh." Kyle looks confused. "All right." His phone buzzes on the table and he glances at it. "Fuck. It's work." He pulls on his jacket, quickly downing his drink. "I need to go in, kind of urgent. You'll be all right to get her home, right Ian?"

"Not a problem."

"No later than midnight, got it? And don't let her out of your sight."

Ian smirks. "Protective much?"

"She's sixteen, Ian. It's my job to be protective." Catherine rolls her eyes, but Kyle doesn't notice. "See you later, Cath. Sorry for running out like this."

"It's fine. I don't mind hanging out with Ian."

Kyle glances between them, like he's unsure what to make of this new friendship. "Right. Okay. Just… take care of her, okay Ian?" He kisses Ian's cheek before hurrying off.

"Has your brother always had a stick up his ass?" Ian asks.

"Just when it comes to me," Catherine says with a laugh.

Ian takes a sip of his gin. "So you've really never had a drink?"

"God no. My parents would kill me."

Ian raises an eyebrow. "Your parents aren't here. Neither is your brother."

Her eyes go wide. "Wait, seriously? You would…" She eyes the bar, looking anxious. "I don't know."

"Come on." Ian winks. "You don’t have to tell Kyle—may as well get started when he’s not around. I was eleven when I had my first drink."

" _Eleven_?" Catherine laughs, shaking her head. "Okay. Fine. One drink."

'One drink', as it turns out, is a translation for 'several drinks'. Ian loses count after a while. Catherine seems to be enjoying herself, and honestly, he doesn't want to get in the way of that. It’s easier, now that Kyle isn’t hovering over her like a drone. She looks like she’s actually having fun. She’s certainly a rambunctious dancer, he’ll give her that.

It's around eleven-thirty when she hurries over to him, looking flustered. "Ian. That guy at the bar wants to buy me a drink. What do I do?"

Ian glances over; the man is young, not much older than Ian himself. He looks nervous, tapping his fingers on the bartop. "He looks harmless," Ian says.

"Yes but, won't he think I want to… you know."

Ian shrugs. "If he tries anything you don't like, aim between the legs with that diamond studded purse of yours."

"O-okay."

Ian's phone vibrates. It's a text from Bennett.

_Need to see you. Urgent job._

"Work," he says. "I have to head off."

"You're leaving?"

"You'll be okay, won't you?" Ian pulls on his jacket, smiling at her. "Just call a cab if you need to."

“Ian… you told Kyle you’d take me home.”

Ian takes a deep breath, then laughs. “Listen, Catherine. If I’ve learned anything about Kyle, it’s that sometimes you need to tell him what he wants to hear—it makes him feel better.” He has been getting a lot better at not hurting Kyle’s feelings, he thinks. “If he wants to convince himself his younger sister is incapable of independence, let him. But you’re old enough to take care of yourself. Aren’t you?”

Catherine looks at the floor, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I… sure. I’m sorry.”

She still looks worried. Sighing, Ian reaches into his boot. He keeps a pocket knife there, for emergencies. It's small, discrete. He's only had to use it a handful of times. It probably wouldn't even be deadly in the hands of someone inexperienced.

Catherine's eyebrows shoot up when he hands it to her. "Um, what is this?"

"You've never seen a pocket knife before?"

Catherine tries to shove it back into his hands. "You can't give me this," she hisses.

"It's fine, just take it. You can hide it in your purse."

"But—"

"Look, I really need to go. You can handle yourself. This isn't even a dangerous part of town."

Catherine bites her lip. She's holding the knife between two fingers, like it's going to burn her. "Ian…"

"I'll see you later," he calls behind him as he hurries off.

He doesn’t like that Bennett just assumes he’s on-call for her—but, well, he sort of is. He’s never one to turn down the adrenaline rush of a last minute job. Normally it’s just clean up. A shoot-out with one too many survivors, or an escapee who knows something they shouldn’t.

Ian isn’t fussy. This is the perfect remedy for an evening of socialising with his boyfriend’s pompous family.

****

Kyle is in the living area when Ian gets back at three in the morning.

"Hey, sorry I'm back so late. You didn't have to stay up." Ian takes off his blazer and hangs it over the coat rack. The job was clean. A distance gunshot, straight through the head. Truthfully, Ian prefers up close and personal, but there’s nothing wrong with a good old fashioned bullet through the brain.

Kyle is leaning forward with his hands clasped. "Sit down, Ian."

His tone throws Ian off. "What's got you all worked up?" he laughs, heading for the kitchen.

" _Ian_." Ian looks up, startled. Kyle isn't just unhappy. He's furious. Ian has never seen him angry. Not like this. "Sit. Now."

Ian does as he says. "What is it?" he asks, trying not to sound irritated. He’s been getting better at being considerate, saying nice things, not being a dick. "You know I'm not good at the whole emotional evaluation thing, so I'd rather you just told me what’s up."

Kyle shuts his eyes. "There's something wrong with you, Ian," he says quietly. "The things you do… the way you _treat_ people. You're not just selfish, or arrogant. You just—you don't care. You don't care at all. It's fucked up."

Ian stares at him for a moment, then laughs. "You're joking, right? I'm not listening to this." He starts to stand up but Kyle grabs his wrist.

"You got my sister drunk and left her alone at a bar."

"Oh please. _That's_ what this is about?"

"She's sixteen, Ian. You gave her a knife for fuck's sake! What if something had happened? She was wasted out of her mind. She barely had the sense to call me. I had to sit with her for an hour while she puked her guts up." He glances down the hall. “She’s asleep now. But she was really upset. I trusted you to take care of her and you left her all alone.”

Ian takes a deep breath. The itch he had before his job tonight has returned. He doesn't look at Kyle. He doesn't know if he can trust himself right now. Being a nice person is fucking hard.

"Don't blame me for your overprotective issues," he says quietly. "She's sixteen. She can handle herself."

"You gave her a _knife_ , Ian. Do you not even realise how fucked up that is? What about the drinking? Or the fact that you just fucking _left_ her there!"

Ian sighs heavily. It's like speaking to a brick wall. "I've been drinking at bars since I was fifteen. Stop overreacting."

Kyle laughs. It's almost hysterical. "Well not all of us are as fucked up as you, Ian!" He hesitates and shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"Yes you did."

Kyle looks pained. "You need help, Ian. I'm telling you this because I love you. You're sick. And I want to help you get better."

Ian watches him take his phone out of his pocket. He doesn't like where this is going.

"I've done some research, and there's this psychiatrist…"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." Ian laughs, getting up. "Fuck off."

Kyle follows him. "I know you don't want this. It's hard to hear, I get it. But I really think it's worth looking into."

"You want me to see a fucking shrink?"

"He's highly recommended," Kyle says. "I've been looking into it for a while…"

"How long?"

Kyle swallows. "A few months. This isn't the first time you've done something like this."

Ian can feel his fists clenching. His jaw trembles. "You could have just left me," he says, his voice wavering. “If it’s so fucking difficult for you to be around me.”

"I love you, Ian. I don’t want to leave you. I want to help you."

Ian’s head spins. He can't make sense of the emotions churning through him, so he settles for anger. Lets himself seethe.

"Just one session," Kyle says. "They can give you a diagnosis. Then we'll figure the rest out."

Ian looks at him. He's sincere. But there's something else there too.

Pity. The same pity he sees in Mickey’s eyes when he looks at Ian.

"You want me to get diagnosed?” Ian whispers. “Fine. See how much better it makes you feel to have a doctor tell you what you already know."

****

The doctor's visit is ordinary. Dull, even. Sanchez is a middle-aged man with silver hair and a neat beard. He has a soft voice and piercing blue eyes that make Ian feel undressed.

He asks Ian about a hundred personal questions, then has him fill out a questionnaire form.

"You don't want to take my blood or some shit?" Ian asks snidely as he hands back the form.

"That won't be necessary," Sanchez says. "However, if you're interested in getting more out of your results, I can recommend you for a CT scan. They help with our research as well."

Ian scoffs, getting up. "I'm good."

"Ian." The first name basis thing is a little cheap. Sanchez has been doing it all afternoon. "I feel obliged to tell you now that your results are unlikely to be… neurotypical."

Ian crosses his arms. "Meaning?"

Sanchez is calm, formal. But there's an edge of concern to his tone. "You'll receive your results by mail in a few weeks at the address you've listed. It's up to you what you do with those results, but if you ever feel the need to discuss them, we're open to walk-in appointments."

Ian waits a moment, half-anticipating a punchline. When Sanchez says nothing, he laughs, heading for the door. "I'll keep that in mind."

The results take two weeks to arrive.

Ian is home late from a job. When he opens the door, Kyle is in the living area, watching TV.

"Didn't realise you'd let yourself in," Ian calls. When he walks into the kitchen, he finds the letter on the countertop. Open.

The paper crumples in his fist. He walks slowly into the living room. "You opened it."

Kyle says nothing. His back is turned to Ian, gaze fixed on the TV.

"It's against the law to open another person's mail," Ian says. "This is fucking confidential."

"Antisocial personality disorder."

"What?"

Kyle turns the TV off, looking back at Ian. "Your diagnosis. Antisocial personality disorder, among other things. Do you know what that means?"

Ian says nothing.

"It means you're a psychopath, Ian." He holds out his hand. "May I?" Rolling his eyes, Ian hands him the letter. He reads, "Disregarding the well-being of others, difficulty showing remorse, difficulty empathizing."

Ian laughs dryly. "Sounds familiar."

"This really isn't a joke to me, Ian."

"Give that back," Ian says, snatching the letter. "You had no fucking right opening it."

"I only want to help you," Kyle says softly.

"You can start by leaving." Ian's jaw is clenched, his breathing quick. "Get out. I don't want you here."

"Please don't fight me. Let me help you."

"Stop trying to _fix_ me!"

Kyle goes quiet. He nods slowly, standing up. "Okay. I'll leave." Ian watches him go. He can taste blood in his mouth, his heart pounding. Kyle stops at the door. "I hope you reconsider my suggestion. About therapy."

He waits, but Ian doesn't say anything. He's concentrating too hard on not lashing out. With a final nod, Kyle leaves.

Ian sits for a moment, perfectly still. He's breathing hard. The letter is still in his hand, crumpled. He doesn't read it. There's nothing it can say that he doesn't already know. Instead, he takes out his phone, dialling the only person whose voice he wants to hear.

It rings for a long time.

When Mickey picks up, it's with a sigh. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I need to see you."

"I've had enough of your bullshit, Gallagher."

"Please."

Mickey goes quiet. Ian never begs. There are times when he's a little more persistent. Especially with Mickey. But he doesn't beg.

"Why?" Mickey asks eventually.

"I'm… in a bad place."

"What, like prison?"

Despite the situation, Ian smiles. "No. Like, mentally."

"Oh."

Ian shuts his eyes, his hand tightening around the phone. "It's good to hear your voice."

He hears Mickey inhale. "Ian… what do you want from me? Because—because last time you called me when you were like this, you tried to get me to fuck you, and that’s not what I—”

“It’s not about sex,” Ian says quietly. “I promise. I just… I really need someone.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Gone.” Ian’s jaw trembles and he sucks in a breath. “Please, Mickey. I’m—I’m losing my fucking mind.”

There's silence on Mickey's end for a good thirty seconds. He’s still there; Ian can hear him breathing. Finally, he says, "Okay, I'm coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less Mickey in this chapter, but fear not, his time to shine is rapidly approaching. ;)


	8. Truth Kills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings beyond the general tags! Just Ian being his typical murderous self.

"Antisocial personality disorder, huh?" Mickey says, reading the letter. "So what's that, like…?"

"I'm a psychopath."

Mickey takes a moment to process that. "Okay. Jesus." He runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip. "Tell me what that means exactly."

"It says it there on the paper. Difficulty empathizing, no sense of morality, yadda yadda."

"Yeah I know what the letter says, that's not what I'm asking. What does it mean for _you_?"

Ian frowns. "I don't understand."

Mickey is pacing. "Can we fuckin' sit down?"

Ian doesn't like the panic he's hearing in Mickey's voice. Maybe it was a mistake calling him. Maybe he was wrong. No one really gets it.

He sits down on the sofa, and Mickey beside him. Neither of them say anything. He can feel Mickey's eyes on him, but he doesn't want to look up.

Rain patters against the window, filling the silence.

"You wanna talk to me?" Mickey says softly. His hands are clasped and he's leaning forward, eyes on the coffee table.

Ian swallows, nodding. "Okay. I… don't really know what to say." He's never had to talk about this. No one's ever asked.

"Well uh, I dunno. Jesus man." Mickey rubs his temples. "I don't know what to say either. I'm not a fuckin' therapist. Just… tell me how you feel or some shit."

Ian laughs weakly. "How I feel? Uh, right. Try 'nothing'."

"Nothing..?" Mickey is bouncing his leg, his shoe tapping on the floorboards. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ian shakes his head. "I… I try so hard to feel. To look at people and give a shit about them. Their happiness, their pain. I can't. There's nothing. I just don't care. I can't care."

Mickey nods slowly. "Okay. I mean… kind of explains a lot." He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. Just waits.

"I've hurt people."

Ian sees Mickey swallow. His brows are furrowed at the centre. "You kill anyone?"

Ian laughs in surprise. "That was quick."

"I gotta ask," Mickey says. Ian wets his lips and nods. "Yes? Fuck. I was kinda joking."

Ian smiles faintly. "Shouldn't have asked if you didn't want to know."

Mickey looks like he's warring between laughing and having a panic attack. "More than once?" Ian nods. "How many times?"

Ian clears his throat. "Um… hard to say."

Mickey goes pale. "Then give me a fuckin' ballpark, Gallagher."

Ian considers. He's been working for almost four years. Normally one or two jobs a month, depending on how high profile they are. Fewer in his earlier days. Some jobs take longer to execute as well… so to speak.

And of course, he killed a couple before he started working.

"Uh, forty?" No, that's definitely too low. "I think more, actually."

Mickey stands up, staring at Ian. "Fuckin'— _forty_?" He drags his hand through his hair. It's shaking. "Nah. Nah that's… that's fucked, Gallagher. That's fuckin' messed up."

"I'm paid to do it."

"Oh. Sure. That makes it all right. What are you, a fuckin' assassin?" Mickey is breathing hard now. He's pacing again. "I kinda wish you hadn't fuckin' told me this. I mean—fuck, am I in danger right now? Just being here with you?"

Ian laughs. That has to be a joke, right? Mickey isn't smiling. "No, of course not. Never."

"Isn't that what you'd say if you were gonna kill me? It said on your diagnosis that you were a pathological liar."

"I thought you didn't believe what was written on a piece of paper."

Mickey laughs. It's too high pitched. "I mean, fuck, what do I know?"

Ian fidgets, watching Mickey pace. "Please sit down, Mickey."

Mickey spins and stares at him. "I—I feel like I should leave."

"Don't. Please don't leave."

Mickey is bouncing on the spot, agitated. "This is some fucked up shit, man, even for me. Christ, I really do know how to pick 'em."

Ian watches him. He can't figure him out. He doesn't know what Mickey's going to do. Whether he's going to freak out, run, attack him, or…

"Please stay with me," Ian says softly. He gets up but Mickey backs away from him. His fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides as he stares at Ian.

"You need to fuckin' stop talking to me like that. Like you're some sweet kid who… fuckin' hell, I should be going to the cops."

"When, in your life, have you ever willingly gone to the police, Mickey Milkovich?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Fuck off." He chews his lip. "God, this is so fucked. I'm looking at you now and I still just—" He catches himself, shaking his head.

"You still what?" Mickey won't look at him. Like he's afraid to. Ian wrings his hands together. "I'm sorry if I've scared you, Mickey."

Mickey laughs, shaking his head. "Bit late for fuckin' apologies, isn't it?" He's silent for a moment. "Your boyfriend know about this?"

Ian rolls his eyes. "He wants me going to therapy."

"Fuckin' therapy? Bit like slapping a band aid on a bullet wound isn't it?"

Ian laughs dryly. "What? Think I'd be better suited to a psych ward?"

"More like a maximum security fuckin' prison."

Ian can't tell if he's joking. He can't tell anything when it comes to Mickey. "Are you going to go to the police?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah? And tell them what? That some guy I fucked once said he's killed forty people?" He huffs, then takes out a cigarette. He's silent for a few minutes, breathing out shaky streams of smoke.

Eventually, he says, "You ever enjoy it?"

Ian frowns, unsure he's heard him correctly. "You mean…?"

"I mean did you ever like it? The killing people shit. Did you get a kick out of it, or whatever?"

Ian bites his lip. He's not ashamed, but he wants to lie. "Sometimes," he says at last.

Mickey lets out a heavy breath, nodding. "Why?"

"You won't like the answer, Mickey."

"Tell me anyway."

Ian sighs. "The adrenaline. The power you have, over whether someone lives or dies. It feels good." He hesitates. "Sometimes it feels fucking amazing."

Mickey lets out a shaky breath and nods, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Did any of them deserve it?"

Ian swallows. A few stand out. "Don't know," he says. "I usually don't ask questions. Just do the job assigned to me."

"Did you kill my dad?"

The question catches Ian off guard. "I—what?"

"Terry Milkovich. I'm sure you remember him. You two were real close." Mickey isn't breaking eye contact.

And Ian can't answer him. It's too late to lie about it. His silence seems to be confirmation enough for Mickey. He frowns, nodding in slow acceptance.

Then he hits Ian.

It's so sudden, Ian doesn't see it coming. Pain reverberates through his skull and he stumbles to the floor, clutching his face. Blood pours from his nose and he feels dizzy.

"He was a piece of shit but he was my fuckin' dad," Mickey says. His voice is low, strained. "You stay the fuck away from me, you sick fucking psycho."

Ian hears Mickey's footsteps echoing off the floorboards, then the door slams behind him.

He's still disoriented, his head ringing. He lies on the floor for several minutes. Blood drips onto the rug. He waits until the bleeding has slowed before he tries standing up.

It's a dizzying walk to the bathroom. His reflection is a sight. The collar of his white shirt is soaked red, blood pouring down his face. He doesn't think his nose is broken. Still hurts like a bitch.

Fucking Mickey.

Ian is smiling. He can’t help it. _Fucking Mickey._ Ian can’t figure him out. No, it’s not even that. He can’t figure himself out. What he’s feeling. Part of it is excitement, yes. But there’s more.

He wants Mickey so badly, it leaves an ache in his chest.

****

"So I take it you haven't reconsidered my suggestion?" Kyle asks, stirring his coffee distractedly.

"About therapy? Nope."

Kyle nods, eyes downcast. "Didn't think so."

They're sitting outside a café on Broadway. It's a cool April morning, the sun glinting through the trees above. Ian has a job later this evening. His first in weeks. He spent last night cleaning his gun and knife. He hasn't decided yet which one he's going to use.

"Well, if that's the case, then I think it would be best if we—" Kyle breaks off. He sounds strained. "If we stopped seeing each other. I can't be with someone who refuses to change his toxic behaviour."

Ian smiles faintly, nodding. It sounds rehearsed. Judging by the tremble in Kyle's jaw, it probably is. He doesn't want this.

"Okay," Ian says.

Kyle looks dejected. Maybe he wanted Ian to fight him. Ian prefers fighting to this. This polite, passive-aggressive, coffee on a Saturday morning, conversation. He would rather be punched in the face and called a sick psychopath.

"I hope that, wherever you end up, you're happy, Ian." Kyle finishes his coffee and gets up. "I'll walk you to your car?"

"All right."

Ian doesn't understand the gesture, but he goes along with it anyway. They walk in silence. It's barely five minutes, but Kyle goes the entire way. When they reach Ian's car, they stop.

"I, um, left some stuff at your place," Kyle says. "I'll stop by later tonight to get it."

"I'm working tonight," Ian says.

"I still have a key. I'll just let myself in then leave it behind."

Kyle looks at him for a moment, his brows furrowed. Then he hugs him.

It's a little more than a hug, really. Kyle _holds_ him. He presses his face into Ian's shoulder, letting out a shaky breath. Ian feels compelled to hug him back.

It's…

It's nice.

They didn't hug often, when they were together. Not in greeting, or in passing. Not even after sex. Ian has never been a hugger. Not with anyone.

He can't explain why he likes this. Maybe it's because he knows, despite their disagreements, Kyle still cares about him.

Eventually, he lets go and clears his throat. "Bye, Ian. I'm sorry things ended the way they did."

Ian doesn't know what he's supposed to say, so he just nods, getting into his car. As soon as he drives away, he realises what he's really feeling.

It's relief.

****

"The thing is, Candace, I'm pretty sure he has feelings for me. But it's hard to tell with him, you know? I'm normally great at getting people to like me. But he's so stubborn. It's frustrating… but also sort of exciting. You get what I mean?"

Candace stares up at Ian in silence. Her husband—late husband—is lying on the living room floor. His eyes stare at nothing. His blood has already soaked through the carpet. Ian feels a little bad. It'll be hard to clean, and it looks expensive.

"I mean, to be fair, I did kill his father. But the guy was awful—you should have seen him, Candace—raging homophobic lowlife." Ian pulls a face. "I sort of did him a favour, if you think about it."

Candace hasn't said a word since she stopped sobbing about ten minutes ago. Ian has taken the opportunity to get some things off his chest. It isn't often that he has someone who listens.

"The thing is, I'm pretty sure he wants me. But he doesn’t _want_ to want me. Says I’m complicated. And an asshole. But then he’ll get this look in his eye…” Ian hums. “But my last relationship didn't really work out. I don't think I'm boyfriend material."

Candace is looking at the gun in Ian's hands. She doesn't move. The shock still hasn't worn off.

"Though, I suppose Mickey probably doesn't want a boyfriend," Ian says thoughtfully. "Maybe we should just fuck? But he doesn’t seem to want that either. Although, the one time we did it was fucking _great_. Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes, when I’m fucking other guys, I just picture the time I fucked Mickey.” Ian grins, biting his lip. “Now that has to be crazy, right? I mean, the sex was amazing, but no sex can be that amazing, can it?”

Candace looks at her husband for the first time since she stopped crying. Her jaw trembles. Her black hair makes her pale skin look green.

Ian leans forward in the armchair, frowning. "I killed your husband. How does that make you feel?"

She looks up at him slowly. There's definitely disgust there.

"Sorry," Ian says, laughing. "I'm only curious. Feelings don't come easily to me.” He studies her, contemplating. "Are you angry? Do you want to hurt me?"

She mostly just looks broken. Ian thinks he would be angry if someone killed Mickey. He would want them to suffer. He remembers the way Mickey looked when he got his fists bloody for Ian. He wants to get angry like _that._ To feel that strongly.

Distantly, he hears police sirens approaching. Candace hears them too, and looks up sharply. Her eyes are wide and frantic, but she remains rooted to the floor.

"I was only meant to kill your husband," Ian says, standing up. "I can't really have anyone knowing I was here though."

"P-please…" Candace's voice is barely a croak. "We—we have a son. He’s barely three…”

She starts to sob again, burying her face in her shirt. Ian sighs, crouching so he's at eye-level with her. "Promise not to tell anyone it was me?"

She looks at him like he's insane, then nods furiously. He pats her cheek with a smile, then presses the gun against her temple and pulls the trigger.

Blood sprays across Ian’s face. Candace’s body falls beside her husband's.

Outside, the sirens are loud. Ian can see the flash of red and blue down the street. Nosy neighbours. He hurries upstairs and climbs out the bedroom window, dropping into the bushes below. He slips into a neighbour's garden and makes his way to his car, which is parked a few streets down.

They won't find him. They never do.

When Ian gets home, his front door is unlocked. He definitely remembered to lock it on his way out. He never forgets.

He draws his gun, slowly creeping inside. The bedroom light is on. He treads carefully across the living room, trying not to stir the floorboards. He can hear footsteps from inside his room. Someone is rummaging around.

Carefully, Ian pushes open the door and clicks the safety off his gun.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Kyle yells, dropping the stack of books he was holding.

"Oh, it's just you," Ian says, lowering his gun. "Forgot you were coming."

Kyle is staring at him with a similar expression to the one Candace had earlier. "I-is that blood?"

Ian looks down at his shirt, wincing. It's splattered in red. He should have brought a change of clothes. But the people in his building don't normally bat an eye when he comes home like this.

He wipes his face and his hand comes away streaked in red. "Right, yeah. There's a very reasonable explanation for this."

"Why do you have a gun?" Kyle's eyes flick frantically between Ian's face and hand. "Ian…"

"It's okay," Ian says slowly, watching him. Fuck, he doesn't want to have to kill him. He puts the gun down on the dresser, very slowly. "I was just… wrong place wrong time, you know?"

"Did you… Ian… did you…" Kyle claps a hand over his mouth, breathing heavily.

Ian catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window. God, he's a sight. Blood splattered across his chest, all the way up his jawline and face. He was too eager tonight. This is what happens when he goes too long without working. He gets sloppy.

"It's okay, Kyle," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I need to go," Kyle whispers, trying to walk past him. Ian puts a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Can you wait a minute? I think we should talk first."

Kyle shuts his eyes, exhaling. "Please let me go, Ian."

Gone is the suave, charming man Ian met at the charity event. He looks so young now. In the last year they’ve been together, Ian has never seen him so afraid. Not when he speaks to his parents. Not when he stands in front of a crowd and talks for twenty minutes. Not even the time he rolled his car on the freeway in the middle of the night and called Ian to come get him.

Ian has seen this fear on plenty of people. But not Kyle. Somehow, it doesn’t feel as good.

"I'm sorry, Kyle. You know I can't let you go."

Kyle shuts his eyes, breathing out. He's shaking. Ian can see tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

He opens his eyes, nodding. "Okay."

Ian smiles.

Something hard slams into the back of his skull.

He gasps and collapses, white lights flashing in front of his eyes. His head rings. Warmth trickles down his temple. He touches it and it comes away sticky and red. On the floor beside him lies a vase, cracked and bloody.

Distantly, he can hear hurrying footsteps. Breathing heavily, he scrambles to his feet, grabbing his gun off the dresser.

Kyle is fumbling with the front door when Ian reaches the living room. He points his gun in front of him, even as he sways. "Don't move."

Kyle freezes, turning around slowly. "Ian…" His voice is very small.

"This could have been civil," Ian says. "I just wanted to have a fucking conversation." The room is spinning, and his head is beginning to feel very heavy.

He staggers over to Kyle, who scrambles back. Ian locks the door and secures the latch. He holds his head, feeling warm blood on his hand.

"Sit," he says, indicating at the sofa with his gun. Kyle obeys and Ian slumps into the armchair across from him. "Now. What are we going to do with you? If I let you go, you'll go to the police."

"I—I won't."

Ian shakes his head. "See, I'm just finding it hard to believe you. Why is that? I've always had a hard time trusting you. But when I told Mickey I was an assassin… I wasn't even worried."

Kyle shakes his head. "Wait you're an assassin—and _Mickey_ knows?"

Ian smirks. "I can't tell which part shocks you more."

Kyle shuts his eyes. "Ian, you have to let me go. Please. I… I love you."

Ian swallows. He doesn't like hearing those words. Especially when they're so sincere. "Finding out a person is a serial killer can change that."

Kyle hasn't made eye contact with him once. Ian can see the disgust in his face. The terror.

Things he didn't see in Mickey. Not like this, at least.

"I don't want to shoot you," Ian says, looking at the gun. "It's too… clinical."

Kyle is breathing hard, his eyes wide with panic. His gaze darts to the front door.

Ian gets up and goes to the kitchen. He digs through his cabinets until he finds the painkillers. He fills a glass with water then sits back down.

"Swallow all of them."

Kyle stares at the painkillers, his bottom lip trembling. He picks up the bottle and empties it onto the table.

"All of them," Ian says again, pointing his gun at Kyle. His hand is shaking. He isn't sure if it's only because of his concussion.

Shutting his eyes and taking a wavering breath, Kyle swallows the first pill.

Then another.

Ian watches him as he downs them. He moves slowly, uncertainly. He only looks up at Ian when the entire bottle is gone.

Ian sighs, putting the gun down on the table next to him. "I felt like I owed you a painless death."

Kyle's eyelids are already drooping. He's crying soundlessly, his eyes damp and red.

Ian's head is throbbing. The room is too bright. His eyes drift closed. It's going to take him a while to sleep off this concussion.

He hears Kyle jumping up—as predicted. Ian is on him before he has a chance to reach the door. Kyle cries out as Ian tackles him to the floor, climbing on top of him.

Ian wraps his hands around Kyle's throat, squeezing. Kyle chokes, trying to pry Ian off him, clawing at his face and arms, kicking and convulsing violently. But Ian doesn't let go. There are fresh tears running down Kyle’s face.

Ian keeps squeezing after Kyle falls unconscious. There's a tightness in his chest. His own breaths are short rasps. He waits for the final bit of life to leave Kyle.

When he finally lets go, his whole body is shaking. He sits back and draws his knees up, hugging them. His head feels as if it's been filled with lead.

Kyle's lips are parted, his eyes wide and blank.

He's dead.

Ian's cheeks are damp. His next breath in is a whimper. He runs a hand through his hair, which is still sticky with his own blood.

He crawls over to Kyle and lifts him into his arms. His body is still warm, but he looks cold, empty.

Ian doesn't know what he's feeling right now, but it isn't a good feeling. Killing is supposed to feel good. Exhilarating. At the very least, he should feel _relieved._ But he doesn’t.

He just feels sick.

****

Miller has never seen Gallagher cry.

She can't tell right now, if his tears are real. But his voice shakes when he speaks of Kyle Lang's death. He's uncomfortable talking about it. He doesn't want to remember.

"He cared about you,” she says quietly.

Gallagher’s bottom lip is trembling, his eyes damp. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Not many people have cared about you in your life, have they, Ian?”

He looks up at her and opens his mouth, shaking. He shuts it and looks away, going silent. Miller waits for him to answer her, but he doesn’t. Part of her is relieved.

She packs away her notes and stands up, then hesitates. “What happened to Mickey?” she asks. “After he left… after you told him.”

Gallagher sighs quietly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “He fell in love with me, of course.”


	9. It's murder on the dance floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially 4000 words of Ian's sexual orientation being murder and Mickey.

"Why was he different?" Miller asks. "Mickey. What made him different? From Lang, and all the rest."

It's been difficult to get Gallagher to speak since he told the Kyle Lang story last week. He's mostly silent, only offering a few, vague answers to Miller's questions.

He's staring at the table now, his bright red hair hanging in his eyes. He looks pensive. Tired.

Miller is almost considering calling it early when he quietly says, "I don't know. He just made me feel."

"Made you feel what?"

Gallagher shrugs. "I just felt when I was with him."

Miller frowns. "I don't understand."

"That's because you're not a psychopath," Gallagher says. "It didn't matter in the end, did it?"

Miller stiffens. "Didn't it?"

Gallagher shrugs. "We had fun, Mickey and I. For a while. But I am what I am. My solution to my problems is to kill them." He smiles faintly. "Case in point, Kyle Lang."

She can tell he isn't being sincere. He's trying to hide his pain by being sardonic.

She wants to believe that.

"What happened with Mickey after you killed Lang?" she asks. "Did you see him?"

"Not for a while."

"And after a while?"

Gallagher tilts his head. "So much interest in Mickey. Why?"

"I've told you already. He’s interesting."

"He's insignificant."

"Not to you."

Gallagher's smile fades. "Yes," he says flatly, "I did see him again."

“How did that feel? After the way you left things?”

Gallagher leans back, making his handcuffs rattle. “Seeing Mickey always felt good.”

****

"You've been misbehaving."

Ian rolls his eyes, fidgeting with the fancy cutlery on the table.

"Stop that," Bennett snaps. She's dressed far more appropriately than he is for a restaurant of this calibre; fitted suit and heels, her dark blonde hair pinned back. He's pretty sure even her glasses are the deluxe version.

He's chosen to wear jeans and a tight fitting t-shirt. He hasn’t even bothered styling his hair, letting it hang limp over his forehead. It was well worth it to see the look on her face when he arrived.

He picks up his wine and has a long sip. "Did you call me here just to scold me?" he asks derisively.

"And to tell you I have another job for you—don't get excited yet. I haven't told you the conditions. Eat your salad."

Ian groans, stabbing at a piece of potato and lettuce with his fork. "Conditions? Fuck off, I haven't worked in months."

"For good reason. You fucked up with Kyle Lang. Left us quite the mess to clean up."

"That was my personal life," Ian says through a mouthful of food. "Not your business."

"It stops being your personal life when it endangers the discretion of our organisation. Lang was high profile. And the bruises on his neck made it pretty obvious his death wasn't an accident." She levels him with a cold look. "If people start asking questions and no one claims responsibility, they open an investigation. Which could very easily lead to you, his _ex-boyfriend_. You're lucky we took care of it."

Ian has never asked what goes on behind the scenes. He knows that most assassinations are cold cases—the assassin is only a middle-man. The real killer is the person paying, and that's very difficult to prove.

In the old days, Ian would handle the clean-up himself. But now that he gets more high profile targets, Bennet's people usually take care of it. Unless the client wants the body to be found, or delivered. But Ian's tracks are always covered, if not by him.

"You weren't meant to kill Candace Woods either," Bennett says, sipping her wine.

"She got in the way.” Ian shrugs.

"Then you should have planned better. We try to avoid casualties, remember? We don't seek them out whenever we're having a little tantrum."

Ian raises his eyebrows, arms crossed. "Anything else? Or are you done treating me like a toddler?"

"I'll treat you like one when you behave like one. You're getting supervision for your next assignment."

"Oh fuck off."

Bennett smiles, and Ian hates it. She’s smug, the bitch. She’s been waiting for an excuse to chastise him like this, and here it is. "You act like a brat, we treat you like one. These are your supervisors." She hands him a folder with two profiles in it. An Asian woman with long hair and about a hundred tattoos, and a large, black man with dark glasses and a trimmed beard.

"Eddie and Shark?" Ian snorts. "Where do you find these people? Do I get an obnoxious secret agent name too?"

"Your obnoxious name is Ian Gallagher," Bennett says dryly. "Eddie and Shark are very experienced. Let them teach you a thing or two and you might actually get to work the next case on your own."

Ian frowns, studying their profiles. Apparently, Shark’s talent is smelling a dead body from a mile away. Figures. He dresses like a Wall Street lawyer. Eddie looks ready to rip someone's throat out with her teeth.

"What happens if we don't get along?" Ian says, closing the folder.

Bennett rolls her eyes and hands him another folder. "Tough luck. This is the target. Top-tier. We can't afford to screw this one up or we're going to have some serious shit to deal with."

Ian opens the folder and stares. "Daria Lombardi. As in the Lombardi crime family? Who ordered it?"

"You know we don’t disclose that information." Ian raises an eyebrow and she sighs. “A family member. That’s all I can tell you.”

Ian whistles. "What's the payout?"

Bennett takes a slip of paper from her pocket and slides it across the table. "Split twenty-forty-forty."

Ian looks at the number. "You're kidding, right?"

"You're the twenty," Bennett says with a cool smile.

Ian crushes the paper in his hand. "I want to work alone."

"Too bad. You fucked up."

He crosses his arms. "Thirty percent."

"This isn't a negotiation, Gallagher. You're welcome to turn it down, but then you're out of a job, aren't you?" She drains her wine glass, watching him.

Ian exhales, shutting his eyes. "Fine. But I get the kill."

Bennett shrugs. "That's up to your supervisors."

Ian groans. "Whatever. Am I free to go?"

Bennett slides a burner phone across the table. "Be ready for a call later this week." He pockets it and stands up. "Gallagher. Fuck this up and you're done, got it?"

He gives her his middle finger as he walks away.

****

"So, you're the brat?"

Ian rolls his eyes as Eddie studies him. She's even scarier in person. There’s a holster on her thigh, below her high-cut shorts. It holds a knife. She has a tally tattooed down her right arm. "Kill count?" Ian asks. "What? Can't keep track?"

"You dress like a virgin on a first date," she says, ignoring the question. Shark is standing a few feet behind her, his arms crossed. He hasn't said a word since they got here.

Ian doesn't like that they're doing this so near his apartment. Eddie and Shark don't know that, of course, but he still prefers to keep work as far away from home as possible. They’re in the attic of a mechanic’s shop. Apparently the owner doesn’t mind lending his real estate out to killers. Ian wonders if his relationship with them is by choice or obligation.

"You're right," Ian says. "I'll take a page out of your book instead. Start dressing like a whore."

Eddie slaps him across the face, her nails cutting into his cheek. He gasps, seeing stars for a moment. His cheek burns. She walks away, her boots thudding against the wooden floor. “You can lose the attitude. And the virgin sweater. In fact, just take off everything. We need to remodel your look for the mission.”

Ian rolls his eyes as he studies the fresh cut on his cheek in the full-length mirror. That will definitely bruise later. “I’ve never had trouble before.”

“The harmless twink look only gets you so far in some circles.” Eddie digs through the suitcase she brought along with her, taking out a deep red blouse. She tosses it to Ian, who eyes it in distaste. “I take it you haven’t had a target this high profile before?”

“High profile enough.”

Eddie rolls her eyes. “Put the shirt on, brat.”

Ian glances at Shark, who hasn’t moved. “I don’t really dress like a virgin, do I?” Shark lowers his dark glasses and slowly looks Ian up and down. He raises an eyebrow and Ian scowls. “Fuck you both.”

Regardless of his protests, he changes into the outfit Eddie has picked for him. It’s an emerald green suit over the red blouse, complete with dark leather boots. Admittedly sleek, but Ian feels like a Vegas crime boss. “Ah, from virgin to pimp,” he says, eyeing his reflection in the mirror.

“It makes you stand out,” Eddie says, giving him a satisfied once-over. She looks far too smug for Ian’s liking.

“Naturally. But isn’t the point to be discrete?”

She shakes her head. “Not when you’re the bait.”

Ian looks at her sharply. “I’m the fucking bait? No, I want the kill.”

Eddie rolls her eyes, sighing. “Jesus. Relax, brat, you can have the fucking kill. But this target has a type. This—” She indicates his outfit “—is it.”

“She has a thing for ostentatious gay dudes?”

“Apparently.”

Ian studies himself, spinning to get a full view of the outfit. Normally, he's on the receiving end of dudes who dress like this. That, and closeted, conservative religious types.

"All right, fine. What's the plan then?"

"The plan is to get a drink." Eddie is already packing her bag. "Change back, I can't have you getting the outfit dirty before the hit."

Ian shrugs off the jacket. "Are you going to tell me how this is going down?"

"Not until Shark and I have had a few beers. We're not getting paid enough to babysit your bratty ass sober."

Ian looks at Shark. He's been standing in the same position since they got here. Ian wonders what it takes to faze him. "I think Shark is warming up to me."

"He isn't," Eddie says. "Come on. You're paying."

They sit down at a shitty dive. It's the middle of the day, so the only people around are half-conscious alcoholics. They receive wary looks when they walk in. Mostly directed at Shark. Ian is starting to like having the bigger man hovering over him like that. It does wonders for the public rep.

Eddie orders beer for herself and rum for Shark.

"Can I get you anything?" the bartender asks Ian as he hands over his card.

"Yeah, I'll have—"

"He's underage," Eddie says.

Ian looks at her sharply. Fuck, he wants to carve the smile off her face. The bartender gives them a strange look as she pours their drinks.

"Fuck you," Ian hisses once she's gone.

"Well it's true," Eddie says, shrugging. "Wouldn't want to be doing anything illegal, would we?" She raises her drink to him. "Thanks for paying by the way."

Ian reaches for his holster, but she catches his wrist. Her grip is tight, her long nails digging into his flesh. Behind her, Shark drains his rum calmly.

Eddie glances around before leaning in. "Hey, psycho. Maybe don't murder your ex-boyfriend next time, yeah? And lose the temper. It's not cute."

Ian wrenches his hand out of her grasp, scowling at the bartop. He scratches at a piece of chipped wood with his nail, picturing Eddie's face.

"It'll happen tomorrow night," Eddie says quietly, sipping her beer. "Shark has connections. He's gotten us onto the guest list at Lombardi's club."

Ian smiles to himself. He likes clubs. Especially for work. They're crowded, high energy, erotic. It's the perfect place for an assassination. A body in plain sight can go unnoticed for an hour in the right club.

"Once we've located her, you need to get her attention. Should be easy. Word is she takes home a different dude every night."

"Where is it happening?" Ian asks.

"You won't be going home with her. She has a shit ton of security at her place and they'll search your anal cavity before letting you into the house. The club is the best place for it. Security at the door is shit."

Ian exhales, nodding. "Good."

Eddie glances at Shark. "They always give us the fucked up ones," she says flatly.

Shark gives a one-shouldered shrug. He doesn't take his eyes off Ian.

"You don't enjoy the job?" Ian asks snidely.

"Uh, yeah. There's a difference between enjoying your job and getting aroused by it."

Ian glances at Shark. Even with the dark glasses, his gaze is judgemental.

The bar door swings open. "Hey, Carrie. Get me a fuckin' beer."

Ian's gaze snaps up. Mickey Milkovich is sauntering across the room; dirty-faced, sweaty, work boots and construction clothes. Heat surges through Ian. He digs his fingers into the cheap upholstery of the bar stool.

Mickey doesn't notice him at first. He tips back his beer, wiping the sweat from his forehead. When he puts down his empty glass he looks up and catches Ian's eye.

He goes stiff. His jaw grows tight, and Ian can see his hand forming a fist on the bar. He wipes his face and gets up, turning and walking back out.

Ian slumps. He wants to go after him. He wants to see him again, to touch him. But not with Eddie and Shark here. He can't trust them. Not with Mickey.

In the two or so months since Ian told Mickey about his lifestyle, he hasn’t heard a word from him. The police haven’t come knocking on his door either, so he isn’t worried. He was never worried. He’s glad Mickey knows the truth about him. It should terrify him, really. He’s left himself vulnerable. His life is in Mickey’s hands. If Mickey goes to the cops, Ian spends the rest of his life in prison, undoubtedly. He could blackmail Ian. Use him. Ask anything of him, and Ian would have to comply.

But it’s Mickey. Ian isn’t afraid.

****

The club is just as Ian hoped. Vibrant, overcrowded, pulsing. It's a maze of strobe lights and colourful drinks and sweaty bodies. With his emerald suit, he blends in quite nicely.

Shark styled Ian's hair for him. It's surprisingly flattering, soft and loose at the top. Shark slapped his hand when he tried touching it.

Eddie hovers by Ian's side while Shark circles the place. He's dressed like security. Black shirt and jeans—a deliberate choice. It helps him blend in, and lets him clear the crowd when he needs to. Most people are too drunk to notice that he isn't wearing a badge or club logo.

Ian isn't sure Eddie has even changed her outfit from yesterday. Ripped shorts, leather jacket, high boots. Her top might be cut lower. The only noticeable difference is her holster, which is now concealed at her hip, beneath her jacket. As promised, security was lax.

"By the bar," she murmurs, nudging Ian in the ribs. He glances over. Daria Lombardi is chatting to the bartender, fizzing cocktail in hand. Her cropped hair is dyed purple, and she's wearing a very short skirt, paired with leather boots.

Ian starts to walk towards the bar but Eddie catches his arm. "Remember, let her come to you. Look too eager and her security will get suspicious. And play the role."

Ian rolls his eyes. "Thanks for the pep talk, coach." He walks over slowly, letting his eyes drift past Lombardi as if she were no more than an abandoned drink.

She has two bodyguards that he can see, distinguishable from the regular security by the holsters at their hips. They hover a few feet away from the bar, blending into the crowd. They don't pay Ian any heed as he approaches the bar.

This is the part Ian is good at. He can play this game. The enticement. The feigned disinterest. A spider weaving a pretty web to trap its prey.

He leans against the bar, pretending to study the array of space-themed cocktails.

Lombardi notices him. He sees her mutter something to the bartender before she walks over. He suppresses a smile. It seems Eddie was right about her ‘type’.

"Can I get you something?" she asks. Even over the noise of the club, Ian can tell her words are a little slurred.

He glances at her with a smirk. "You're too drunk to be a bartender."

She raises a pierced eyebrow with a laugh. "Wow! All right. The question stands."

"Are you offering to buy me a drink?"

She stares at him, her smile growing. "Do you even know who I am?"

Ian frowns, studying her. "Er, should I?"

"Daria Lombardi? I own the fucking place."

"Oh, really?" Ian says, unimpressed. "Well, you should probably fire one of your bartenders. I hear she's been drinking on the job."

She grins, shaking her head. "How about you and I get out of here? I have a place less than a block away."

She’s forward. Or maybe just drunk.

Ian wets his lips, smiling. "I mean, I kind of came here to get wasted."

She rolls her eyes. "Really pushing for that drink, huh? All right." She turns away and tosses a few ingredients into one of the shakers. Ian watches as she prepares the drink and places it in front of him.

"So you do know how to bartend," he says, taking a sip. It's incredibly sweet, and burns on the way down.

She shrugs, wiping down the surface. "Went to bartending school to piss my dad off. Kind of just went with it after that."

"They teach you how to dance at bartending school?" Ian eyes her over his drink.

She laughs, glancing at the door. "You sure you don't just wanna bang me in the alley?"

Ian grins, biting his lip. "What's fucking without a little foreplay?"

"If you're trying to be a gentleman…"

"I'm not." Ian leans across the bar, murmuring, "I just want to feel you up in the middle of the room and see if anyone catches us."

She strikes Ian as an exhibitionist.

She takes his hand and drags him onto the dance floor. "What else you into?" she asks, her mouth against his ear.

Ian grins, leaning down. "Ever pegged a guy?"

Her hand tightens around his arm and she pulls him close. She cups the back of his head and kisses him hard. Her mouth tastes sugary sweet, like the cocktail she served him. Ian kisses her back.

Oh yes, the research did pay off.

Eddie is nearby, slowly weaving her way towards them. Across the room, Ian can see Shark, hovering near Lombardi's eagle-eyed security. They have their eye on Ian now that he's getting close and personal with their charge. Ian meets Shark's eye as he kisses Lombardi's neck. Shark gives a slow nod.

While Lombardi grinds against Ian, Eddie approaches her from behind. She presses herself against Lombardi's back. Ian rests a hand on Eddie's hip, feeling beneath her jacket. He can see Lombardi's security scanning the crowd.

Eddie has blocked their line of sight to Lombardi.

"What is this?" Lombardi slurs, glancing over her shoulder at Eddie. "Like a three-way situation? Because I'm down."

Ian smiles, slipping Eddie's knife from its holster. "Yeah? You like the sound of that? Both of us at once?"

Lombardi grins, pushing her hips forward. " _Fuck_ yes."

Across the room, Shark bumps into Lombardi's security, distracting them for just a moment.

Ian slams Eddie's knife into Lombardi's back.

Her scream is silenced by Eddie's hand, not that it's necessary with the ear-shattering music. She stares up at Ian with bulging, horrified eyes. He grins, pulling the knife out before plunging it back in. Over and over and over. Her blood splatters over his hands and Eddie's chest. She glares at him over Lombardi's shoulder.

Ian barely notices her. He's fixated on the way Lombardi's body twitches and writhes in his arms. The way her face drains of colour and her blood spills over his hands.

The club pulses and flashes, people dancing all around them, oblivious to what's happening.

"Come on, brat, that's enough," Eddie hisses. "We need to go."

Ian laughs, adrenaline surging through him as they drop Lombardi's body to the floor. Eddie drags him towards the back exit, buttoning her jacket to hide her bloody shirt.

Shark is waiting for them in the back alley. "Security see you leave?" Eddie asks. He shakes his head.

Ian leans against the wall, catching his breath. Laughter and excitement bubble in his chest. "That was fucking amazing," he breathes. Eddie and Shark exchange a look.

"Give my knife back, psycho," Eddie says, wrenching it from his bloody hands. She scowls, wiping it down on her handkerchief. "You have a change of shirt for him?" she asks Shark.

Shark nods, digging through the shoulder bag he's carrying. When Ian doesn't move, Shark taps his shoulder, prompting him to strip off his shirt.

Ian discards the emerald jacket and unbuttons the red blouse, which is damp with Lombardi's blood. "Do you reckon she's still alive?" he asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Eddie grimaces. "I don't even want to know what's going on in your head. And if she is alive, she'd better not be for much longer. We can't afford to fuck this one up."

Ian pulls on the grey sweater Shark hands to him, and lets the man wipe his hands clean with a rag. "You should have seen the look on her face," he says, biting his tongue. "Her eyes. She was hurt."

"Right… I think I've heard enough of your psycho rambling for one night," Eddie says. "Come on, we need to get to the car. Keep that dopey look on your face—people will think you're just wasted."

Ian is still buzzed when he gets home hours later. They received confirmation from Bennett about twenty minutes after leaving the club—Lombardi is dead. The payout will be coming their way soon.

Ian spends a long time in the shower, letting the scorching water rush over his face. His nerves are on fire, in the best way possible. He didn't realise how much he was craving this. He keeps replaying it over and over in his head. The feeling of warm blood on his hands. The terror in Lombardi's eyes.

He gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He's in the middle of brushing his teeth when there's a knock on the door.

He freezes. No one visits him at two in the morning. No one friendly.

He rinses out his mouth and picks up his gun, creeping across the living room floor. He drips water onto the floorboards, still wearing nothing but a towel.

Silently, he peers through the spyhole.

It’s a mixture of relief and excitement that floods him. He pulls the door open.

Mickey is leaning against the doorframe with one hand, holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the other. He’s wearing a thin vest that shows off his biceps. The summer air is warm, and his body glistens with sweat.

He looks like a fucking wet dream.

He gives Ian a gradual once-over, his eyes pausing on his bare chest. "Jesus, you're fuckin’ naked.” He shakes his head. "I need to talk to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shout out to everyone for leaving such kind and engaging comments! We're at about the halfway point and it's always so uplifting hearing that people are enjoying the fic. I love you all so much 🥺🥺


	10. Being responsible is shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-preservation is staying the fuck away from Ian. Self- _care_ is fucking Ian. 😏

"You're bad for me, Ian. You're terrible. You're a fucked up, sick psychopath."

Ian can tell Mickey is trying to be serious, but he's slurring his words hard, and he keeps staring at the places Ian's towel barely covers.

"Would you like to come in, Mickey?"

"Yeah I'd like to fuckin' come in," Mickey says, shouldering past him. He takes another swig of his whiskey, sauntering into the living room. "You killed my fuckin' dad. And then stalked me a bunch. And I'm pretty fuckin' sure you killed your ex too—yeah, I read the news. Kyle Lang? Said he OD’d then hanged himself." Mickey snorts. “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

Ian closes the front door and goes to his bedroom. Mickey follows.

"You're a psycho. Literally. You murder people for money—and for fun!"

"Mostly for fun," Ian says, amused. He quite likes this Mickey.

Mickey swallows, looking him up and down. "Put some fuckin' clothes on."

“You going to look away?”

Mickey takes a swig of whiskey, narrowing his eyes. “Nah.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian lets the towel drop. Mickey gives a low whistle as he pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants. “Fuck, can't decide if your ass or your cock looks better.” He sits on Ian's bed, balancing the whiskey bottle between his knees.

"Is that why you came here?" Ian asks, towelling off his hair.

"No…" Mickey doesn’t sound confident in his answer. He has another gulp of whiskey. "Came here to tell you how fuckin' crazy you are. And messed up."

"That all?"

"And how fucked up I am for even wanting to be near you. Fuck, you'll probably murder me as soon as you get bored of me."

Ian stiffens. "That's not true."

"That what you told Kyle Lang?"

"Kyle didn't know I was an assassin. He tried to go to the police when he found out."

"And what if I tried to go to the police?"

Ian chews the inside of his cheek, fidgeting. His high is wearing off. He doesn't like this conversation. "You won't."

"And if I did?"

"I would stop you."

Mickey snorts. "By killing me."

"No. By… convincing you."

Mickey drains his whiskey bottle of its last few drops. "Yeah? Tell me how you'd convince me." His eyes wander over Ian, assessing him.

"Mickey Milkovich, are you trying to blackmail me into sex?"

Mickey laughs weakly. "Think I'm too fuckin' hammered to get it up to be honest." He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. "What's wrong with me? I know what you are. I should be fuckin' terrified. I should be moving to Mexico and changing my identity."

Ian sits down next to him. "But?"

Mickey shuts his eyes. "But I don't want to. I just want to be here. With you." He sits up. They're so close—almost touching. Ian can feel the heat of Mickey's body. "You know, when I saw you yesterday, in that bar, all I could think about was… was how fuckin' good it would feel to touch you again."

He cups Ian's face, fingers cold. Ian leans into his touch

"Are you afraid of me, Mick?" he asks softly.

Mickey is gazing at him, his fingers tracing Ian's cheek. "Yeah. I'm fuckin' terrified."

"Then why are you here?"

Mickey shakes his head, running his hand through Ian's hair, down the back of his neck, coming to rest on his spine. "Because I fuckin' want you. Same as always."

Ian shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath. Those words sound so good coming from Mickey. “You never want me,” he says quietly.

“’s not true,” Mickey says. “I just know what’s good for me. And you ain’t it. You’re a fuckin’ dick who cuts his wrists to get laid. And stalks people. And kills them.” He frowns. “But I’m sick of being responsible. Fuck being responsible. Being responsible is shit. Fucking you is way more fun.”

Mickey reaches for his empty whiskey bottle then curses. "Fuck you, Gallagher." His hand drops from Ian's back. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands.

"Are you all right, Mickey?" Ian is working very hard not to overreact to anything Mickey says. He needs to let him talk this one out, until he’s done. If Ian says the wrong thing, he might scare him off.

Mickey looks at Ian slowly. His teeth are gritted. "No, I’m not okay. You're a fuckin' psycho. You're fucked up. You _kill_ people! Do you know how messed up that is? Oh no, you don't, because your brain is wired to enjoy it. Because it's just a fuckin' game to you. So yeah, fuck you for being a messed up lunatic."

"Anything else?" Ian asks calmly.

"Oh, you want me to go on? Okay. Let's see. You fuckin' stalked me."

"Only a couple of times."

"And you murdered my fuckin' dad!" Ian goes silent. He probably shouldn't try and argue. "Not to mention the way you _use_ people. Your boyfriend, Kyle Lang. You kissed him."

"So?"

"You don't kiss people. That's what you told me the first time we banged.”

Ian tries not to smile. "How do you know I didn’t just like kissing him?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Didn’t. You just wanted to make me jealous.”

“So everything’s about you now, is it?"

"Yeah, everything’s about me. It fuckin’ worked, by the way. Made me jealous as fuck. Plus I jerked myself raw thinking about you for days."

Ian swallows, adjusting his position on the bed. He gets the sense Mickey wouldn't appreciate knowing that this is turning him on. "Okay."

"And you know what else? You're fuckin' crazy." His words are getting more slurred.

"I think you mentioned that." Mickey is swaying, leaning against Ian heavily. Ian can tell he’s trying very hard to keep his eyes open. “Do you want to sleep here, Mick?”

"Fuck you," Mickey whispers, clenching his fists. "Fuck you for making me want you. For getting into my head and screwing around with it. For making me do shit like assault people for you. For making me feel like this. For being so stupidly attractive. I deserve better than you, you fuckin' asshole."

He's breathing heavily. He lies on his back, his eyelids heavy. Ian watches as he drifts off.

Part of Ian is incredibly amused by this side of Mickey. It's endearing seeing him so open. Exciting, knowing how he feels.

The other part of him is terrified. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do next. He's never been very good at dealing with emotions—his own or other people’s. With Mickey, there are a lot of emotions.

Well, Mickey won't be waking up any time soon. Ian hauls him under the covers, tucking a pillow beneath his head. After drawing the curtains and putting his gun on the nightstand, Ian climbs into the bed next to him.

There's a good foot of space between them. Mickey is sprawled out on his back, lips parted. Ian curls up on his side, facing away from him. He inches closer to the edge of the bed. He's never been much of a cuddler.

Ian wakes up to the warmth of Mickey's breath on the back of his neck.

Fuck.

Mickey is still asleep, but he's moved closer to Ian in the night. Much closer. Ian lies still for a moment.

He can feel the press of Mickey's erection against his back.

The clock on the nightstand tells him it's just after eight. He doubts Mickey will be waking up any time soon, given the night he had.

In the past, the people Ian's slept with haven't minded waking up to his mouth on their cocks. He considers it, but decides against it. The memory of being called a fucked up psychopath is pretty heavily ingrained into his mind. Still, it takes a lot of willpower to get out of that bed.

_I fuckin' want you._

Of all Mickey's ramblings from the previous night, that's the one line Ian can't shake—not that he wants to. He brushes Mickey's face with the back of his fingers. He's on his side now, mouth hanging open as he sleeps angled towards Ian’s side of the bed.

Ian gets dressed and leaves to get coffee. He doesn't have much at home, so he walks to the café down the block and pays an unreasonable amount for two cappuccinos.

He wonders if Mickey even drinks coffee. He's never asked.

When he gets home the sun is streaming through the living room window. The bedroom is still dark, Mickey buried in the covers.

Ian places the coffee on the nightstand and shakes Mickey gently. "Mick, wake up."

He stirs and groans, but doesn't wake. Ian rolls his eyes and strips off the covers. He needs to wash the sheets soon anyway. Mickey makes a sound of discomfort, turning over. "The fuck…"

"Get up," Ian says, removing the pillowcases. "I brought you coffee."

Mickey glances at the nightstand and shuts his eyes, pressing a hand over his forehead. "Fuck. My head…" He looks up at Ian and frowns. "Shit, did we…?"

"No."

Mickey glances down at the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants. "Jesus." He covers himself, scowling. "Were you like… in the bed, before?"

Ian nods, tossing the bedsheets into a pile. "I slept here."

"You mean we slept in the same fuckin' bed?"

"It's my bed."

Mickey rubs his face. "Christ."

Ian considers him with a small smile. "Your dick seems pretty interested in me."

"Fuck off." Mickey hesitates a moment. "It is. Even though I keep telling it to let my brain do the thinking." He picks up the cappuccino from the nightstand and takes a sip. "You got aspirin or something? Fuck."

Ian nods, retrieving it from the bathroom, along with a glass of water. Mickey drains it in one go. He eyes the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. "You sure we didn't fuck?"

"Pretty sure."

He rubs his head, propping himself up against the headboard. "What happened? Did I… do anything?"

Ian shrugs. "Called me a fucked up psychopath. Said I was a murderous lunatic. A few other things, I think."

Mickey shuts his eyes, breathing out. "So nothing you didn’t know already. What else?"

"You said you wanted me." Ian wets his lips, swallowing. "Was that a lie?"

Mickey is silent for a while. He stares at his hands, the corners of his mouth downturned. "I think we need to have a conversation," he says quietly.

"About what?"

"You know what about. Me and you."

Ian nods, fidgeting. He can't tell if this is going to be a good conversation or not.

"I wanna start fucking," Mickey says.

_Yes._

"Okay." Ian is trying to remain unfazed, but he feels warm all over.

"But we're doing it on my terms."

Ian sits down on the bed next to Mickey. He wants to touch him. "And what are your terms?"

Mickey gulps down his coffee and places the empty cup on the nightstand. “First off, no romantic bullshit. We’re just fuckin’, all right? Don’t need to deal with your weird, co-dependent shit. So no more phone calls at two in the morning because you’re feeling depressed or suicidal or whatever.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “All right.”

Mickey sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay wait, that sounded harsh…”

“It’s fine. No romantic or suicidal bullshit.”

“Look, I mean, if it’s really that bad—”

“It’s okay, Mickey,” Ian says, laughing. “I get it. Boundaries.” Kyle told him about boundaries a lot. At the time, Ian didn’t really get it, but he thinks he’s starting to.

Mickey nods, satisfied. "Okay. Okay good. Second thing… uh, well it's more of a question really. Can I kiss you?"

Ian frowns, biting his lip. "Um."

"You can say no." Mickey doesn't meet Ian's eye when he says it.

"I don't really care." He sort of does, but he doesn’t know how to admit it.

"Fine. We'll just call it a no on the kissing."

"I mean, we could just try it. Once."

Mickey's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, really? Like, right now?" Ian shrugs and Mickey chews his lip. "Shit I mean… okay."

Ian climbs up onto the bed, straddling Mickey's thighs. Mickey looks up at him with wide eyes, as if he isn't quite sure what to make of Ian's gesture.

That's just fine. Ian prefers to be in control.

He's gentle at first, cupping Mickey's jaw and brushing his lips against his cheek before finding his mouth.

It's tender, chaste. Just a touch of mouths.

Then Mickey threads his fingers into Ian's hair and pulls him closer. Ian opens his mouth, letting Mickey slip his tongue inside. The taste of coffee masks the faint remainder of whiskey.

Ian lets Mickey deepen the kiss, sinking further into his lap. He cups the back of Mickey's neck and kisses him hard, grinding down.

"Fuck, Ian." Mickey breaks away, breathing heavily. "Slow down, I… fuck, I need a minute." He shuts his eyes, leaning back.

Ian doesn't move. He's quite comfortable; Mickey's erection is pressing firmly against his ass. "Any more rules you want to lay down before we fuck?"

"Shit." Mickey rubs a hand over his eyes, his hips twitching. Ian smirks. "Yeah, um. No sleepovers. That shit we did last night? Not happening again. That cool?"

Ian nods. "Cool."

"All right. And, I gotta ask—this gonna be an exclusive thing?"

Ian scoffs. "Fuck no." He’s tried the boyfriend thing. It didn’t work out. Obviously.

Mickey shrugs. "Had to make sure. Don't want you hunting down some dude with a knife 'cause he blew me. Oh, and on that note—no murdering and fucking on the same day." He shudders. "Don't need to be the outlet for whatever horny energy you get from sticking knives in people."

Ian smiles but doesn't say anything.

"You got anything to add?"

Ian shakes his head. "I just want you to fuck me." To emphasise the point, he shifts so that Mickey's hard-on is wedged firmly against his ass.

"Fuck, fuck… okay." Mickey breathes heavily. "Not sure I'm gonna last. God I could come in my fuckin' pants with you moving around like that."

"That so?"

Mickey grits his teeth. "That wasn't a fuckin' challenge."

"I disagree."

Mickey groans as Ian rocks in his lap. Ian holds him down, both hands braced on his hips. While Ian moves, Mickey unzips his jeans for him.

"You have such a nice fuckin' cock," Mickey breathes, spitting into his hand before rubbing Ian slowly. Ian leans forward, resting against Mickey’s shoulder. He sucks Mickey’s neck, sighing. “You bottoming?” Mickey asks as Ian rocks in his lap.

Ian nods. “Need to clean up. Don’t touch yourself until I get back.”

Mickey sits up, swallowing as Ian climbs off him. “I’m gonna last all of five seconds. Fuck, Ian.”

Ian stops at the bathroom door, smirking. “Think about me stabbing someone to death.”

Mickey gives him a horrified look, then glances down at his cock. “Fuck’s sake. I swear that made me harder.”

“Geez, that’s kind of messed up, Mickey.”

Mickey gives him a deadpan look as he smiles and slips into the bathroom.

After cleaning himself out, Ian splashes his face in the sink, glancing at his reflection. His cheeks are flushed, freckles prominent against his pale skin. He brushes his hair off his forehead, pausing to breathe for a moment.

Mickey is sitting out there, waiting for him. Ian bites his lip, smiling to himself. He’s lost his erection in the cleaning process, but thinking about Mickey has his blood rushing downward.

_I fuckin’ want you._

When Ian gets back, he climbs onto the bed and straddles Mickey’s lap, kissing his jaw and neck. Mickey is still hard, his cock slick with precum. “Hope you didn’t touch yourself while I was gone,” Ian murmurs.

“Like fuck I didn’t,” Mickey pants.

He gasps as Ian closes a fist around his cock. "Condom?”

Mickey nods and Ian leans across to open the nightstand drawer. At some point, he wants it raw with Mickey. To feel his come trickling down his thighs. To come inside him.

For now, this is good.

Mickey slicks his fingers with lube, tracing Ian’s ass. When he slips the first one inside, Ian inhales sharply, clinging to his shoulders. Mickey glances up at him, eyebrow raised. “Gold star top?”

Ian laughs, breathless. “Hardly. But it’s been a while.”

Mickey nods, taking his time. “You’re gonna be so tight. Fuck.”

Ian shivers, resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder as he works his finger inside him. When he adds a second, it burns. Ian digs his fingers into Mickey’s back, making him wince. “Take it easy, Gallagher.”

Ian winds his fingers in Mickey’s hair, shifting in his lap. Mickey’s cock is pressed against his stomach, leaking, hot. “You’re gonna feel so good inside me,” Ian breathes, wrapping a hand around the back of Mickey’s neck and kissing him.

Mickey sighs into his mouth, adding another finger. “Thought we weren’t meant to kiss?”

“Changed my mind,” Ian says, rocking back on his fingers. “Feels good when it’s with you.”

Mickey makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and pulls Ian down, kissing him again. “Reckon you’re ready to take my cock?” he asks. “Could get you looser, but…”

“You want me tight.” Ian grins. “Want me to ride you?”

Mickey exhales, licking his lips. “Fuck yeah.”

“On your back,” Ian orders, pushing against Mickey’s chest. He lies down and Ian settles over his hips, sliding on the condom. “How long have you been hard?” He smirks, shifting to find the right angle. “Think you can last for me?”

“Probably fuckin’ not,” Mickey groans as Ian sinks down the first inch. “Holy fuck you’re tight. _Fuck._ ”

Ian holds Mickey’s shoulders to keep himself steady, breathing through the burning stretch. He shuts his eyes and tips his head back, sinking further. “Oh god, Mickey.”

“Look at you,” Mickey sighs, running his hands over Ian’s chest. “Fuckin’ gorgeous. Keep going, you’re almost there.”

Ian digs his fingers into Mickey’s biceps, slowly taking him in. Mickey groans, resting his hands on Ian’s hips. He bucks up and Ian gasps. “Fuck. Right there, Mick. Keep going.”

“Yeah. Yeah— _fuck._ You feel so good.” Mickey pants as he rocks into Ian. “That’s so fuckin’ hot. Watching you take my cock with that look on your face. Feels good, huh? C’mon Gallagher, tell me how good it feels.”

“ _Mickey,_ ” Ian groans. This dirty talk is really fucking doing it for him. “God, I love your cock. Love how it feels. So thick and hot.”

“Jesus, I’m not gonna fuckin’ last,” Mickey says, moaning. “Just wanna come inside you. Oh fuck, _Ian._ ”

Ian grips onto the headboard as he rides Mickey. When Mickey starts rubbing Ian’s cock, he gasps, moving faster. Their skin slaps together and the headboard thumps against the wall. Between that and Mickey’s graceless moans, it’s utterly obscene.

Ian comes first. He pulls Mickey upright and bites down on his shoulder, crying out as he spills across his stomach. “Ian—oh, god.” Mickey digs his fingers into Ian’s hips. He sinks deep and holds him down as he shudders through his orgasm.

They sit still for a moment, Mickey slowly going soft inside Ian. Sighing deeply, Mickey rolls Ian off him and gets out of bed.

“Calling it off again?” Ian asks, light hearted, but uncertain.

Mickey glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “You fuckin’ kidding me? You might take fifty years off my life expectancy, Gallagher, but for sex like that, I’m willing to risk it.”

Ian turns his face away to hide a smile. “Okay. Good.”

They see each other every week for the next three months. Always at Ian’s apartment. Mickey’s place remains elusive.

It feels strange when Ian starts working again. Despite Eddie's belittlement, it seems she and Shark gave him a positive review. Bennett assigns him new targets—albeit low profile ones. In the past, Ian often slept with his targets. Part of the thrill is the lure, after all.

But now, he finds himself foregoing the sex.

Why bother, after all, when Mickey is a text away?

He doesn't know if Mickey is still seeing other people. He doesn't ask, worried he won't like the answer.

As promised, their relationship is nothing beyond fucking. No romance, no overnights. They bang, shower, Mickey leaves. That’s all.

They do kiss though, sometimes.

****

"When did things change between you two?" Miller asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't just casual fuck buddies, in the end. You were much more than that."

Gallagher shrugs. "I don't remember, to be honest. So long ago, and I sleep with so many people."

Miller resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Right. So you don't remember getting married to Mickey?"

A smile breaks across Gallagher's face. "Oh yes, that. What about it?"


	11. The Wedding Part 1: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry this chapter took a little longer than normal! I've been catching up on assignments this past week. Thank you so much for all the support on this fic!

"What changed?" Miller asks. "You seemed pretty happy with the casual sex arrangement." Gallagher went into fairly graphic detail last time. Miller had sort of been anticipating that.

"I was happy."

"But your feelings must have changed?"

Gallagher frowns. "Why is that?"

"You—you _married_ him. Usually that involves some kind of intimate connection."

“Hm. Not in my experience.”

They’ve been going round in circles like this for a while. Miller sighs. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mine."

"Why?"

Gallagher smiles faintly. "Because… I just wanted to."

"Did you love him?"

He becomes visibly uncomfortable, laughing weakly and fidgeting. "I don't experience love."

"But you felt something."

Gallagher rolls his eyes. "Sure."

Miller frowns, glancing at her notes. She seldom writes anything down, but every meeting they’ve had in the past few weeks has yielded the same scribbled question.

_Did Gallagher love him???_

She turns the page face down. She's starting to think it's a question that won't be answered.

"What about Mickey?" she asks. "Was he on board with the marriage thing?"

Gallagher's smile returns, genuine now. "Eventually."

****

When Ian gets a call from an unknown number, he isn't expecting to hear his sister's voice on the other end.

"Ian? It's… it's Debbie."

He has to sit down. He's in his living room, glass of wine in hand. Outside, it's twilight, the sky a hazy purple. He's just come home from a job. He was enjoying the high, until now.

Hearing Debbie's voice is like a shock to the system. She sounds older now, but it's still unmistakably her.

"Is this the right number?" she asks uncertainly when he's silent.

"Yeah," he says faintly. "It's me."

"Oh god, Ian! It's—it's so good to hear your voice."

Ian takes a sip of his wine. The glass shakes in his hand. _Fuck._ This is supposed to be behind him.

"How did you get this number?" he asks.

"Shit. I'm sorry, I—I know you don't speak to us anymore… or, you don't want to. But this is important."

She's desperate. Ian can hear it in her voice. He's her last resort. She wouldn't be calling if she had other options.

"What do you want?" he asks. “Is this about money?”

"Money? No, it’s—it's about Lip. He's in some trouble. Got arrested in Chicago. No one will be able to make it down for at least a week. Fiona is on a business trip in Canada and I'm so busy with Franny..."

Ian doesn't know who Franny is. He doesn't ask.

"If… if you could just visit him, try and find out how much bail is. Or… or just tell him we're on the way. Please, Ian. He's not doing so great right now. I don't want him to think that we've just abandoned him."

"Which police station is he being held at?" Ian asks, getting up and pulling on his jacket. It isn't cold enough for snow yet, but the wind has been icy this past week.

"I—I think Central."

"I'll take care of it."

Debbie exhales. "Fuck. Thank you, Ian."

"Does Fiona know you're calling me?"

Debbie is silent for a beat. "... no."

Ian isn't surprised. "Tell her I said hi." He hangs up.

Lip's bail is only a couple of grand. It's a DUI. His first, so they're lenient. Ian pays it.

"Any relation to Mr. Gallagher?" the officer asks, glancing up at him from behind the reception desk.

"His brother," Ian says. She nods, jotting down a few more details.

"Sign here please," she says, placing the form in front of him. "By doing so, you are accepting civil responsibility for the defendant. If he fails to appear for his court date, you forfeit the bail amount."

"Thanks, not my first rodeo," Ian says, scribbling his signature.

He waits outside at his car. They take their time releasing Lip. Thunder rumbles distantly, promising rain. Maybe hail. It's bitterly cold.

When Lip emerges from the station, he freezes in his tracks. "Holy shit."

He's grown taller, though still doesn't match Ian in height. His hair is longer too, and there's a faint shadow of stubble on his jawline.

He hesitates only a moment before walking over and hugging Ian tightly. Ian stiffens, but Lip doesn't seem to notice.

"No fucking way," he laughs, drawing away and looking Ian up and down. "When they said my brother bailed me out, I was expecting Carl in some pimp van."

"You look different," Ian says.

"I look different? Look at you, man! You're dressed like a gay trophy husband. Got yourself a rich boyfriend or something?"

Ian smiles. "Or something. Come on. It's freezing."

Lip whistles as he climbs into the passenger seat of the coupe. "Shit. Where'd you steal this from?"

Ian smirks. "North Siders."

Lip laughs, rolling down the window and taking out a pack of cigarettes as Ian pulls onto the road. "So how'd you even know I was here? Been what? Five years?"

"Debbie called me."

Lip nods, leaning against the window frame as he smokes. "So how come this is the first time I'm hearing from you since you were fifteen?"

He isn't hiding that he's bitter. Okay, so that's how they're playing this.

"I was busy," Ian says flatly.

"Yeah no shit. Doing what? Running a drug cartel?"

Ian smiles. "Far more illegal."

Lip is tapping his foot, his forehead creased. "You know, you could have at least called us every other month or something. Sent us a text. Maybe a fuckin' postcard."

Ian has been anticipating this conversation for years. Oddly, he isn't angry. Maybe it's because it's Lip. This isn't his fault, Ian reminds himself.

"You moved to California," Ian says.

"You should have been there with us!"

Ian laughs, watching the road ahead. "Fiona feel the same way?" Lip goes silent. "Don't pretend to be angry with me. You know it wasn't my decision."

Flicking his cigarette out the window, Lip sighs. "You know, most of the time she acts like you don't even exist. Like you chose to leave us."

Ian nods, holding tightly onto the steering wheel.

"Is it true?" Lip asks quietly. "You know, I always assumed Fiona kicked you out, but…"

"She gave me an ultimatum. I left."

"You wanna tell me why?"

Ian laughs. "You're a smart guy, Lip. I'm sure you've figured it out by now."

From the corner of his eye, Ian can see the consternation in Lip's expression. They make the rest of the drive in silence.

"You can crash here for the night," Ian says when they pull up in front of his apartment. Lip glances up at the high-rise.

"Jesus. Seriously, what do you do for a living?"

"Wait until you see the inside," Ian says, smirking. He's almost forgotten what it feels like walking into a place like this after growing up on the South Side. It's no luxury suite, but to Gallaghers, a one-bedroom apartment is a Beverly Hills mansion.

Lip is duly impressed when they walk through the front door. He laughs, gazing through the wall-length windows. "Holy shit. If I'd known it could get this good I would've left home at fifteen too."

Ian gets two beers from the fridge. But when he offers one to Lip, he goes tense. "Ian, I uh, I just got done for drink driving, remember?"

Ian raises an eyebrow. "And? You're out now, let's celebrate."

Lip swallows, frowning. "I’m. I'm good."

Ian laughs, putting the beer on the coffee table and sitting down. "You got an alcohol problem or something?"

Lip looks uncomfortable, staring at his shoes. "Yeah, uh. Courtesy of Frank, I guess," he mumbles, sitting next to Ian.

He keeps glancing at the open beer on the table. Ian wonders if he'll take it.

"So how long are you in Chicago?" Ian asks.

"Well, probably longer than I'd planned now," he says. "Hopefully I'll get lucky and they'll slap me with community service or something."

"What did you come here for?"

Lip gives him a sidelong glance. "If Fiona asks, college."

Ian smirks. "And if I ask?"

Lip shrugs. "Just needed some time away to be honest. Shit's been crazy since Fiona got engaged and Franny was born."

"Wait, Fiona's engaged? And who is Franny?"

Lip raises an eyebrow. "Debbie's kid? She didn't mention that?"

"Debbie has a kid? Isn't she like, thirteen?"

"Fifteen." Lip frowns. "You really didn't know?"

Ian shrugs, finishing his beer. He picks up the other bottle, nodding at Lip. "Sure you don't want it?"

Lip swallows, shaking his head. "Yeah. I'm good."

"So Fiona's getting married?"

"Uh, yeah. Couple months' time." Lip considers for a moment, then looks at Ian. "Hey, you know, you should come. To the wedding."

Ian laughs, shaking his head. "No thanks. I can't go all the way to California."

"It's happening here, actually. Fiancé’s parents and grandparents and great-grandparents all got married at this church and he wants to carry on the family tradition or some bullshit."

Ian picks at the label on his bottle. "Fiona doesn't want me there."

"How do you know that? You haven't spoken in five years."

"I know it."

Lip frowns. "Well, think about it. I know the others would like to see you again. Debbie and Carl. Even Liam."

Ian looks up. "Liam remembers me?"

"Yeah, asks about you sometimes." Lip smiles sadly.

Ian chews his tongue. "Can I bring a date?"

Lip laughs in surprise. "A date? So you do have a boyfriend."

Ian shakes his head. "Not a boyfriend."

Lip looks sceptical. "He more than fifteen years older than you?"

"No," Ian says, amused.

"Drug dealer? Junkie?" Ian shakes his head. "Then sure, why not? Bring him."

"I'll think about it."

****

"A wedding? What am I, your fuckin' boyfriend?"

Ian sits up in bed, watching Mickey dress. "No. But there'll probably be an open bar."

"What difference does it make? You pay for all my drinks anyway."

Ian scowls. "It's just for fun."

"Stuck in a building with family all day? Sounds like a fuckin' nightmare to me."

Sighing, Ian gets up, pulling on his jeans. "Whatever. I don't care if you come. Just thought you might want to fuck on the altar when everyone's gone."

Mickey grins, buttoning his shirt. "You're fucked, Gallagher. I'd avoid religion if I were you. No god's gonna be putting you in the good place."

Ian leans against the dresser, crossing his arms. "So is that a no?"

Mickey sits on the bed, pulling his boots on. The headboard is coming loose, Ian notices. "Yeah," Mickey mumbles. "It's a no."

"Whatever," Ian says. "Fuck you."

"Man, fuck off. It's a stupid fucking wedding. Take me and everyone there's gonna think we're a couple. You know that's not what we're doing here."

"It's just my family."

"Yeah, even worse. Next minute I'm gonna start getting invited to psychopath Sunday dinners."

"I'm the only one in my family who has it," Ian says quietly. Monica always had issues, but Ian doesn't think she's ever killed anyone. "I'll text you the address… in case you change your mind."

"Yeah sure, whatever." Mickey gathers his things and heads into the living room.

"Where are you going?" Ian asks, following him.

“I’m on Yevgeny duty," he says.

Ian stops short. "You still hang out with him?"

Mickey gives him a strange look. "He's two, Ian. I don't hang out with him, I change his diapers when he shits himself."

Ian frowns, fidgeting. He sometimes forgets that Mickey has this other life. He doesn't talk about it often, and when he does, he's dismissive. Ian doesn't think Mickey's wife even knows he exists.

"Can I meet him?" Ian asks suddenly.

Mickey looks at him as if he's sprouted wings. "Who, Yevgeny? Why the fuck would you want to do that?"

"I'm good with babies," Ian says.

"Yeah, good at drinking their blood maybe."

"I thought you didn't give a shit about your kid."

Mickey laughs, pulling on his jacket. "Uh yeah, there's a difference between not wanting to take him to baseball practice and caring whether or not a psychopath is gonna toss him out a moving car."

Ian crosses his arms. "I don't toss babies out of moving cars." He likes Mickey's playful teasing, but sometimes, it gets a little ridiculous.

"The answer is a firm fuck no. Svetlana would kill me if I let some nutjob near her kid."

"I'm not a nutjob."

Mickey smiles, touching his shoulder as he passes him. "You're a psychopath. Psychopaths don't get to meet babies."

Ian watches as he opens the front door. "You'll think about the wedding?"

"I'll think about how much I don't wanna go," Mickey says, lifting his middle finger as he shuts the door behind him.

****

Ian has been to a few weddings in his lifetime. Barring Frank and Monica's spontaneous courthouse trips, most of them have been all right. Alcohol is always ample, and when it's a gay wedding, so are pickings.

The church is on the outskirts of the city. Honestly, the 'church' is more of a vineyard with a crucifix on the gate. The altar is set up inside a grand pavilion, draped with about a thousand white roses and tiny twinkling lights. Beyond the gardens, fields stretch for miles, towards snow-capped mountains.

So, the fiancé is rich.

It's icy cold in the gardens, but the pavilion is well heated. Ian approaches the altar. There's an archway, woven with vines and roses. He stands beneath it, looking out at all the empty chairs below.

He's never thought about getting married. He can't picture it, standing up here in front of a hundred people, saying empty phrases like 'I love you' and 'I promise to take care of you'. They’re all false statements anyway. He’s slept with enough married men (and one or two women, when the job called for it) to know that marriage is a sham.

Most people are inside. He slips through the dining hall and past the bar, into the back room.

He follows the sound of shouting a commotion through the corridors until he comes to a small dressing room.

"I can put the veil on myself, Debbie!"

"Look, you already got lipstick on the sash!"

"Carl, where are the flower baskets? You were supposed to bring them to the altar twenty minutes ago!"

Ian leans against the doorframe, watching the chaos ensue. Liam is sitting in the corner doing the same. He's tearing the petals off a rose when he spots Ian.

His eyes go wide. "Ian!"

He rushes over and wraps his arms around Ian's waist.

The rest of the Gallaghers fall silent, looking at him. Fiona is frozen to the spot, her hand trembling around the bouquet. Lip is smiling, while Debbie and Carl look as if they're still trying to process his presence.

Fiona speaks first. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Her voice is low, dangerous. She marches over and tugs Liam by the arm. "Don't go near him, Liam."

"You look beautiful, Fiona," Ian says, smiling.

Rage flares in her eyes. "You motherfucker." She lets go of Liam and grips Ian by the throat, slamming his head against the wall.

"Fiona!" Debbie shrieks.

Ian blinks, dazed. "Not happy to see me?" he laughs.

"You can't be here, Ian," Fiona hisses. "Not today."

"Let go of him, Fiona," Lip snaps, pulling her away. "I asked him to come."

Fiona spins, her jaw clenched. "Why the fuck would you do that!"

"Fiona, he's our brother!" Debbie says, looking distressed. "Please, let him stay. It’s been five years for Christ’s sake!"

Carl is silent, biting his lip as he watches Fiona. He's holding a baby. She has bright red hair and looks quite alarmed at the situation.

"And whose fuckin' fault do you think that is?" Fiona snaps. "He chose to abandon us!"

"That's a lie," Lip hisses. "You kicked him out. Your own fucking brother!"

Fiona is shaking her head. Ian can see that she's trying to fight off tears. "You have no _fucking_ clue what he is! I did it for our family."

"He _is_ our family," Debbie says. "Please, Fiona. Please let him stay. He's our fucking brother."

Fiona shuts her eyes, rubbing her face with her palm. She lets out a heavy breath and shakes her head. When she looks at Ian, there's venom in her gaze. "You can stay for the ceremony. But you're sitting at the back and if you so much as _breathe_ wrong, I'll have George call security on you."

Ian smirks. "George in the Mafia or something?"

Fiona turns away, storming out of the room. Lip's anger seems to fade a little. "I… I should probably go talk to her," he says, picking up Liam. He pats Ian's shoulder on the way past. "Hey. Glad you made it."

Once he's gone, Debbie throws her arms around Ian. "I can't believe you're actually here."

"You've grown," Ian says. "Last time I saw you, you were barely past my waist."

Debbie laughs. She looks as if she's trying to fight off tears. "Yeah and you were skinny and freckly. Now you're…"

"Hot?"

Debbie punches his arm, laughing. "Shut up."

Carl is standing back, still clinging to the little redhead baby. He's grown too. He's a little taller, and his hair is long and messy.

"Hey, Carl," Ian says.

"Hey." Carl looks awkward, like he hasn’t decided yet whether he’s glad to see Ian or not. "Uh, this is Franny. Debbie's kid."

Ian swallows, looking at the baby's large blue eyes. "Can I hold her?"

Carl looks at Debbie, who nods. He hands Ian the baby, who makes a small whine of protest before looking Ian in the eye. She giggles, grabbing a strand of his hair. Ian frowns.

"She's small."

"Yeah dude, she's a baby," Carl says.

"She's only six months," says Debbie. She looks between Ian and Franny. "Could I maybe take a picture of you holding her?"

Ian nods, not taking his eyes off the baby. She stares back at him, her little hands curiously exploring his face.

"I'm surprised she isn't crying," Debbie says, taking out her phone. "Normally she screams her head off when strangers hold her."

"I'm not a stranger, I'm her uncle."

Debbie smiles, taking the photo. "I just want her to remember you after…" She trails off, her smile faltering a little.

"Why did you leave, Ian?" Carl asks quietly. He's avoiding Ian's eye.

Ian hands Franny back to Debbie. "Fiona didn't want me."

"Yeah but…" Carl chews his lip. "You never visited. Or called. Or anything."

Ian frowns. Debbie is quiet, and doesn't meet his eye. "Do you guys… hate me?"

"No!" Debbie says at once.

Carl shakes his head. "Nah. Just kinda pissed at you."

Ian puts his hands in his pockets, glancing at the mirror. His hair is hanging in his face where Franny pulled on it. It's strange, seeing himself in the midst of his siblings. He doesn't quite fit.

"What do you do now?" Debbie asks.

"Are you rich?" Carl asks. Debbie elbows him and he scowls.

"Yeah, rich as fuck," Ian says, and Carl grins. "My boyfriend pays for everything."

He doesn't know why he lies. They're Gallaghers. He knows he could tell them the truth. They wouldn't rat him out.

But, maybe there’s a small part of him that’s afraid of how they’d react to finding out their brother is a murderer.


	12. The Wedding Part 2: Family History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the wedding! With a little more backstory and drama thrown in 😏

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of the term 'crazy' to describe a mental disorder. There's obviously quite a lot of that in this fic, but I'd say it's a bit more frequent and significant in this chapter.

"Why did your sister kick you out?" Miller asks. Gallagher is staring at the table, looking distant.

He's never talked about his family before. Not in this much detail. It's off topic, but Miller is curious.

Gallagher is silent for some time. Miller watches him. His expression is unreadable. At first, when he spoke of his family, he was uneasy. Now he's shifted into this unsettling tranquillity.

Eventually, he shakes his head. "Gee, I dunno. Why do you think she did it?"

"Did she know about you?"

Gallagher laughs. "Doctor Miller. Fiona helped me bury my first body."

****

"Lip, you know I'm kind of fucked up, right?"

Lip glances up. They're smoking outside the pavilion, in the freezing cold of early evening. The ceremony is about to start.

"Yeah…" Lip nods slowly. "You mean like the bipolar stuff? Like what Monica had?"

Ian shakes his head. "I got diagnosed. The bipolar stuff is pretty minor."

"Oh, well that's… that's a good thing, right?"

Ian takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Depends how you look at it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I have ASPD."

Lip shakes his head. "ASPD…?"

"Antisocial personality disorder. It means I'm a psychopath. Basically."

Lip is staring at him, cigarette halfway to his mouth. "A—a psychopath? Jesus, and what's that mean? You like hurting people?"

"I… don't _not_ like it."

Lip is giving him a look he often gets from his targets. Normally it doesn't bother him. But… this is Lip.

"You ever kill anyone?" Lip asks, a little hoarsely. Ian stays silent and Lip turns a pale shade of green. He drops his half-smoked cigarette, leaning against the wall for support. "Jesus fucking Christ. I always thought Fiona kicked you because you'd stolen a car or some shit."

"No you didn't," Ian says quietly. "You're smarter than that, Lip. You've always known I'm not… ordinary."

"Yeah, in a slightly troubled kid way, not a murderer way!"

Ian shrugs, leaning back against the wall and inhaling from his cigarette. Lip stares at him, shaking his head.

"Jesus, you're… you're not even bothered." He wipes a hand over his face, sucking in a breath. "I, uh, I think I'm gonna head inside. You know. Ceremony starting soon and all and I'm meant to be giving away the bride."

Ian lets him go. He isn't in the mood for this conversation again. Other people's feelings are too exhausting.

Inside, most people have taken their seats. The groom—George—is hovering by the altar, looking nervous. He can't be younger than thirty-five, but he's not bad looking.

_Good for you, Fiona_.

As promised, Ian sits in the back row. The pavilion is almost full when someone sits next to him. Ian glances up and rolls his eyes.

"Fuck off, Frank."

"Long time, no see," Frank says. He's surprisingly well-dressed. Suit and tie, combed hair. He's even wearing cologne. Ian can't remember a time in his childhood when Frank didn't smell like booze.

Now, he almost looks nervous, the way he studies Ian up and down. "You've done pretty well for yourself," he says. "Got out before you got stuck like the rest of us." He looks up at the altar. "Except for Fiona. Bagged herself a good one—and by good I mean loaded, of course."

Ian doesn't humour him with a response. Instead, he looks straight ahead, thinking about all the ways he'd murder him if he could. A gun would be too quick. Strangling too up close and personal. A knife would do. Or maybe a rope. A fucking sword if he had one.

"Let me give you some life advice, son," Frank begins, placing a hand on Ian's shoulder.

"I'm not your son," Ian says, brushing Frank's hand off.

He puts it back. "I raised you, that makes you my son." Ian stares at him, wondering if he ever actually hears himself. "You see all this?" He indicates sweepingly at the pavilion. "Do you know what it is?"

"It's a wedding, Frank."

"No, no! It's so much more than that, my little ginger psychopath. It's a celebration of _love._ "

Ian tips his head back, rolling his eyes hard.

"Everyone needs love. Even you—hey don't laugh! Love is great. It got me six wonderful kids. Ungrateful kids, but wonderful nonetheless."

Ian shuts his eyes, wondering if it'll make him go away.

"And let me tell you something else—you're more of a catch than you realise."

Ian snorts. "Thanks. My self-esteem is pretty intact though."

Frank shakes his head. "What I'm saying is, women love the crazy ones. Crazy behind a pretty face. It's nature's most devious snare."

"I'm gay, Frank."

Frank scrutinises him for a moment then waves his hand. "Well, the men like crazy too. Go wild for it in fact. Just look at me and Monica. But—that isn't the point. All I'm saying is, get married young, so you have time to figure out if you're the marriage type. And if you're not, divorce comes with a lot of perks—just make sure you marry rich. And never sign a prenup. That's very important."

Ian sighs. At least there's one person who hasn't changed.

A hush falls over the room and the lights dim. Behind the altar, the pianist starts playing.

Ian watches George, whose gaze is fixed firmly on the pavilion entrance. When Fiona steps through the archway, his eyes go wide, the nerves slipping away. A smile breaks across his face and he bites his lip.

"See that, son?" Frank murmurs. "That's love. That man would take a bullet for your sister."

Ian frowns, watching Fiona walk down the aisle, Lip at her side. She's smiling uncontrollably behind her sheer veil, and her hands are trembling around her bouquet.

Ian knows nothing about George, but if he had to guess, he'd say he was great in bed. He can't think of anything else that would elicit a smile like that.

When Fiona reaches the altar, George lifts her veil. His face screws up like he's trying not to cry. Fiona laughs, her eyes creasing at the corners.

Ian doesn't pay much attention to the vows. They're saccharine, cliché, and probably ninety percent bullshit.

He's more interested in the way George looks at Fiona. The way he brushes her face with his fingertips when they kiss. The way his eyes sparkle with tears.

There are a lot of men who have loved Ian. Or claimed to, anyway. None of them have ever looked at him like that.

When the ceremony is over, Ian wanders through the gardens. There's a fountain underneath one of the trees. The branches are barren, just a silhouette against the dark night sky.

Ian sits on the edge of the fountain, running his fingers through the water as he sips on a glass of champagne. It’s icy, making his fingers hurt.

He looks up when Fiona joins him, a thick coat over her wedding dress. The white train drags across the grass. "You know those things are a nightmare to clean," Ian says.

"Yeah well, I ain't wearing it again," she says, taking a sip of her champagne. "If this marriage goes down the drain, I'm out of the race."

Ian smiles. They sit in silence for some time. Light spills across the lawn from inside. They're playing loud music now. Most people are dancing.

Fiona shivers next to him, drawing her coat tighter around her shoulders. "Why are you sitting out here?" she asks. "It's fucking freezing."

"Why did you help me, Fiona?" Ian asks quietly. "You should have turned me in."

He doesn’t have to specify. Judging by the way she goes still, she knows exactly what he’s talking about. "Gallaghers don't snitch," she says quietly.

Ian laughs softly. "Come on. I didn't vandalize some asshole's Porsche. I killed a kid."

Fiona flinches, but steels her jaw. "He bullied you."

"He was fifteen."

"Well so were you!" Fiona buries her face in her hands, gasping. "Fuck, Ian. You were my little brother. This messed up little boy who…"

"So why did you kick me out?"

Fiona bites her lip. "I… I couldn't. Liam and Carl and Debbie. I mean, what was I supposed to tell them? That their brother cut some kid's throat but it was all okay? What if you'd killed again and they'd been the ones left to clean up your mess? Or what if it was me again and I got caught? I’d be in prison for decades. Who’d raise them then, huh?"

She wipes her tears away and looks him in the eye.

"The things you did, Ian… the way you acted. It scared me. I was fuckin' terrified. Sometimes I'd wonder if… if you were even human."

Ian watches a beetle crawl through the grass. "It would be easy to believe that, wouldn't it? That a human isn't capable of the things I've done." He looks up at her. "Do you ever worry that any of the others will turn out like me? Carl or Liam. Debbie, even."

Fiona shuts her eyes, taking a deep breath. She shakes her head. "Not anymore. I did at first, but you were always different. You just… didn't care about people. They were sweet kids, in their own ways. You were always…"

"A psycho?"

Fiona shrugs. "A psycho." She glances at him. "You ever kill anyone else?"

Ian stares at her a moment, then laughs. "You don't want me to answer that."

She nods. "Yeah, you're right. I don't think I do."

"Do you want me to leave now?"

She places her empty champagne glass on the edge of the fountain, sighing. "Kinda. But the others want you here." She shakes her head. "They were so fuckin' happy to see you. I always wondered if I made a mistake not telling them about you, but… Jesus, it would break their fuckin' hearts if they found out now."

They both look up at the sound of footsteps on the grass. Lip stands before them, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mind if I sit? George's aunt is getting a bit handsy."

"Go ahead," Fiona says, patting the edge of the fountain.

"Hey, uh… I'm sorry for freaking out earlier," he says to Ian, sitting beside him.

Ian smiles. "I'm used to it."

"I would've been worried if you hadn't freaked out," Fiona says. "Don't need another psychopath in this family. You had anything to drink?" Her gaze is firm.

"I really fucking want to," Lip says.

"Yeah well, if you fuck up again, I doubt they're just gonna give you probation."

"I can get him a good lawyer," Ian says.

Fiona gives him a cold look. "Yeah, no thanks. He doesn't need charity from a murderer."

Lip cringes a little when she says it, but Ian is only amused.

"I can speak for myself, thanks," Lip says bitterly, taking out a cigarette.

"Go out the front if you wanna smoke. Apparently it kills the rose garden or some shit, and I’m not getting another lecture from George’s grandma," Fiona says, standing up. "I'm gonna get more champagne and fuck George in one of the bathrooms. It's my God damn wedding day."

Ian watches her hoist her dress up and march across the lawn. "She's not as angry as I remember," he says. "I was prepared to call myself an ambulance before I walked out of here."

"Yeah well, you should've seen her during the wedding planning months. Part of the reason I moved back down here. Wanna join me out front?"

Ian nods. "Should probably go soon. Don't want to overstay my welcome."

Lip nods slowly as they walk back through the pavilion. "Probably for the best." He's still not at ease around Ian. Even as they walk across the dance floor, he keeps his eye on him. Like he's afraid he might pull a knife on the next person who bumps his shoulder.

When they step out of the reception area into the chilly front courtyard, Ian stops in his tracks.

Mickey is pacing at the bottom of the steps. He's all dressed up, black suit and tie, hair combed back. He looks up and freezes. "Shit."

Ian smiles slowly. "You came."

"I, uh, yep. I'm here." He glances at Lip. "Who's this?"

"Lip Gallagher. His brother." Lip's eyes are narrowed mistrustfully.

"Mickey Milkovich. His… friend."

Lip hesitates, some of the hostility slipping away. "Milkovich? Any relation to Mandy Milkovich?"

Mickey frowns. "Yeah. My sister. Don't see each other anymore. How do you know her?”

"College. Had an English class with her. Psych major, I'm pretty sure."

Mickey stares at him in disbelief. "Mandy? In college? You sure we talkin' about the same person here?"

"Community college," Lip says. "Started going after I uh, got expelled." He mumbles the last part.

Mickey still looks impressed. "Probably the first Milkovich to finish high school. She doing all right?"

"Yeah, she's… she's good." Lip buries his hands in his pockets, sniffing. "I, uh, think I'm gonna head back in," he says to Ian. "Um… stay in touch, okay?"

"You sure you want me to?" Ian asks with a small smile.

Lip hesitates before answering. "Yeah. Yeah I mean it." He gives Mickey a sidelong glance before leaning in to murmur, "This your date?" Ian nods and Lip raises his eyebrows in approval. "Good for you. He seems… not crazy or twice your age. He know about the whole, uh…?"

"I killed his dad. He knows."

Lip withdraws, his face screwing up in distaste. "Fucking hell, Ian. I'll see you." He walks back inside swiftly.

Maybe it was a little early to drop that bombshell.

Ian turns to Mickey, who's hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

"So, your friend huh?" Ian says, walking down to his level.

"Shut up," Mickey says with a scowl. He lets Ian cup his jaw and press his face into the nape of his neck.

"Why'd you come?"

Mickey shrugs. "Dunno. Probably shouldn't have."

"No?" Ian cups his ass and presses into him. "Pity. I kind of wanted to fuck you behind one of the rose bushes."

"Yeah well. That sounds uncomfortable as shit. Rose bushes h-have thorns." Mickey's unsteady breathing undercuts his tone. Ian can feel the beginnings of a hard on through his slacks.

“All right. Then we can find somewhere else to fuck. I don’t care. I want to be inside you.” Ian runs his mouth along Mickey’s jaw, leaving soft red marks.

“Fuck, Ian. How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much,” Ian says, moving Mickey’s hand to his crotch. “Just really fucking want you. God, you drive me crazy.”

Mickey laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I think you were pretty crazy before I showed up.” He gasps when Ian squeezes him through his slacks. “Fuck, fuck—fine. Let’s fuck. But not here, Jesus. I’m not a fuckin’ exhibitionist.”

Ian grins, taking him by the hand and dragging him inside. There’s no one in the reception area, but the main room is packed. The DJ is playing some old Rolling Stones stuff, and people are wasted out of their minds. The mood is different to that of a nightclub. It’s all excitement and laughter, rather than the sultry, pulsing heat Ian is used to.

He holds Mickey’s hand tighter, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he leads him into the bathrooms. Once they’re inside, he pins Mickey to the wall, kissing him hard. Mickey sucks in a breath, taken off guard. He makes a soft noise in his throat and wraps his fingers in Ian’s hair.

Ian laughs, unzipping his slacks first, then Mickey’s. He grips Mickey’s cock and purrs against his ear. “I want to hear you fucking beg me.”

One of the cubicle doors slams open, and Ian pulls away abruptly. Fiona emerges, followed by her husband, who’s looking very embarrassed.

Fiona rolls her eyes when she sees Ian. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kiddin’ me. Learn to check the damn cubicles.”

Ian scowls, zipping himself back up. “Lock the door next time.”

She gives him her middle finger, hiking up her wedding dress to pull her stockings back up. Her husband nods at Ian. “Er, George. Nice to meet you.”

“Ian. The crazy brother.”

George frowns. “Right.”

Fiona eyes Mickey as she washes her hands in the sink. He’s still pressed against the wall, hand on his zipper. “You his boyfriend?” she asks.

“No,” Ian says. “We’re friends. Great friends.”

Fiona snorts. “You have friends?” Ian gives her a sardonic smile.

“Uh, congrats on the marriage,” Mickey says. “Dress is nice.”

Fiona looks him up and down, then nods in Ian’s direction. “Get out while you can. He’ll ruin your fuckin’ life.” Without another word, she leaves, followed by her sheepish husband.

Mickey gives Ian an incredulous look. “Sister seems nice.”

“She helped me bury my first body, so there’s a bit of bad blood.”

Mickey blinks. “Right. And I thought my family was fucked up.” He buttons up his shirt and straightens his collar.

Ian watches him for a few moments, biting his lip. Mickey’s hair is mussed, his lips pink and his face flushed. Something burns in Ian’s chest. An urge that he can’t identify. It isn’t lust. It’s unfamiliar—almost painful. He feels lightheaded.

“I want to get married,” he blurts.

Mickey frowns, then his eyes go wide. “Like, to _me_?”

Ian nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. Who else would I marry?”

“Um, literally anyone on the fuckin’ planet. I’m not getting fuckin’ married to you.”

Ian slumps. The pain in his chest throbs. “Why not?”

For a fleeting moment, there’s guilt in Mickey’s expression. But he schools it. “I mean, there’s a long fuckin’ list of reasons.” He sighs, touching Ian’s arm gently. “Come on. It’s just… wedding fever, or whatever. You been drinking? Come, I’ll drive you home.”

“I drove here…”

“It’s all good, I got a taxi. Give me your keys.”

Mickey watches him expectantly, and eventually, Ian sighs and hands them over. He follows Mickey back out through the main room. They pass the dance floor. It doesn’t look as warm and exciting as it did a few minutes ago. People are starting to drift away, some in pairs. Ian wonders what the bar tab looks like.

The drive home is silent. Ian steals glances at Mickey, but he’s reticent, focused on the road ahead.

When they get to Ian’s apartment, he waits while Ian showers. Ian doesn’t know why he doesn’t leave right away. He doesn’t ask. Mickey hovers by the bedroom door as Ian climbs into bed. “You good, Gallagher?” he asks quietly.

Ian swallows, watching him from the bed. “Can you stay?” His chest feels tight.

Mickey looks away, running a hand through his hair. “Ian, you know we don’t…”

“Please.”

Mickey shuts his eyes and exhales. “All right. Fine.” He hesitates. “You mean, like… in the bed with you?”

Ian nods. Mickey contemplates for a moment before he kicks off his shoes and strips down to his boxers. He climbs into the bed next to Ian, leaving on his dress shirt. There’s space between them, but Ian can feel the heat from Mickey’s body. He inches back, close enough that he can feel Mickey’s breaths against the back of his neck.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest throbbing.

“Mickey,” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human when I’m around you.”

The confession hangs in the air between them. Mickey’s breathing stutters. He’s silent for so long, Ian wonders if he’s fallen asleep. He doesn’t really expect an answer. But now, having said it, he knows they aren’t words he can take back. He doesn’t know what they mean to Mickey, but they do mean something to him. He should say more, probably. But for now, that’s as much as he understands.

When Ian is starting to drift off, Mickey shifts closer. He puts an arm around Ian’s waist, and lets it rest there. The ache in Ian’s chest eases, just a little.


	13. Would you kill for me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied self-harm.

_Did Gallagher love him??_

The question has been eating at Miller since last week's interview. They've been doing this for months, and this is the closest she's been to an answer.

"Why did you ask him to marry you?" she asks. She's trying not to look at the bandages on Gallagher's wrists. He's heavily sedated today, barely responsive.

It's difficult not to pity him. This isn't the first time, the guards tell her. Happens every other month. He just looks so… pathetic. Sitting there with a dazed look, gaunt and underweight.

She has to remind herself who he is. What he's done.

When he doesn't answer her question, she tries a different approach.

"Did Mickey love you?"

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. It could be laughter. He's smiling, very faintly.

Then he starts to look distressed.

He reaches for his face but the cuffs stop him. They're tighter than normal today. Miller can hear his breaths quickening. She swallows, glancing at the officer by the door.

"Could you… loosen his cuffs a little?"

He stares at her like she's insane. "No, definitely not." He gives Gallagher a look of disgust veiled as pity. "He gets like this sometimes. Nothing we can do but sedate him, and he's already had the maximum dosage."

Miller frowns. This isn't a man who deserves her sympathy, she reminds herself. But it's difficult seeing another human being like this. Even one so inhuman.

She studies him, frowning. "Mr. Gallagher… Ian?"

He looks up, eyelids heavy. "Yes,” he sighs. “He did love me. Of course he loved me. Want to know how I know that?" He leans forward suddenly, his cuffs rattling. Miller flinches, jumping back. Suddenly, she regrets her pity.

"How?"

Gallagher wets his lips, smiling. Miller’s blood runs cold. She isn’t sure she wants to know the answer anymore.

****

Mickey sleeps over a lot now.

They share the bed, but never like that first night. They take opposite sides and stay there through the night. No creeping closer together, no subtle brushes of limbs. Sometimes, once Mickey has fallen asleep, Ian will roll over and watch him sleep. Just to make sure he’s still breathing.

In the morning, they fuck again, then Mickey leaves for work.

He bounces between jobs. Usually it's some form of security work. Sometimes it's construction. When Ian reminds him that he would be able to support both of them on his income if they got married, he receives a middle finger and a go fuck yourself.

He suggests marriage at least once a week—Mickey still hasn't come around. He's compiled a list of reasons, in fact, against the idea.

For starters, he's already married. Nothing a few divorce papers can't solve, Ian tells him.

For another, Mickey says, if they were to get married, Ian would become Yevgeny’s stepfather. Ian doesn't understand the issue with this, but for some reason, Mickey is very firmly against it.

And finally, perhaps the most important point…

"You don't love me, Ian," Mickey says. "You can't. This isn't what you really want. You're just bored."

Ian draws his knees to his chest, watching as Mickey picks his clothes up off the armchair. “You don’t need love for marriage,” he mutters. He doesn’t like when Mickey brings this up.

It’s a stupid reason.

“All right, fine. But neither of us need a green card. And you may be rich, but you ain’t sugar daddy rich. So again, remind me why you want to get married?”

Ian bites his tongue as Mickey buttons his shirt and pulls his shoes on. “I want to be with you.”

Mickey laughs. “You’re with me all the fuckin’ time.”

“That’s just sex.”

“With me, in me—what’s the difference? And put some fuckin’ pants on before I get hard again," he says, nodding at Ian's crotch.

Ian scowls and picks his sweatpants off the floor, tugging them on. He slumps back onto the sofa. “We could live together,” he says. “Both of us. Here.”

“And what? I bring Yevgeny over on weekends and we all hang out and bond over your latest assassination?”

“I can look after Yevgeny,” Ian says defiantly. “I’m good with babies.” He held Franny and she didn’t cry. How hard can it be?

“Yeah no thanks,” Mickey says. “You already killed one family member of mine.”

“No one is going to pay me to kill a fucking baby.”

“Oh yeah? And who paid you to kill Kyle Lang?”

Ian grits his teeth, looking away. “Why do you always bring him up?”

“Because, he was your fucking boyfriend. And now you’re asking me to be your husband? Do you realise how that looks from where I'm standing?”

Ian doesn’t say anything. That burning feeling in his chest has returned. He rubs his eyes. _He never cries._

“I mean, shit Ian,” Mickey goes on. “The first two years I knew you, all you did was fuckin’ stalk me. How am I supposed to believe you actually wanna marry me and you aren’t just looking for something to do until you find your next kick? What’s gonna happen when you decide you’re sick of being married? Strangle me and move onto the next piece of tail?”

Ian’s fists tremble. “Shut up,” he hisses. “Don’t say that.”

“What? That you’ll kill me? It’s where this is going isn’t it?” Mickey runs a hand through his hair, laughing. “I mean, _fuck._ I know I shouldn’t be here. Don’t I fucking know it? You’re so bad for me. The way you make me feel sometimes…”

“I’ll never hurt you, Mickey.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I know you think you mean it, but I know you, Ian. You're dangerous. And even if you don't kill me, where is this going? Do I spend the rest of my life trying to find ways to justify what you do?”

Ian’s eyes burn. He never fucking cries. Something is wrong with him. “Then why are you still here?” he whispers.

“Because I…” Mickey swallows, fiddling with his collar. “I don’t know how to stay away.”

“What does that _mean_?”

Mickey grits his teeth, sighing. “It means _fuck you,_ Ian.” He picks up his jacket. “I’m going for a walk.”

Ian frowns, watching as he opens the door. “Are you coming back later?”

"If I come to my senses, then no. But I told you. I'm an idiot and I can’t fuckin’ stay away from you.” He slams the door behind him.

Ian watches the door for a few moments, hoping it'll open again.

It doesn't.

He sighs and curls up on the sofa. It's growing dark outside, the evening sun drowned out by heavy grey clouds. It’s chilly. Ian pulls a blanket around his shoulders.

He isn't waiting for Mickey. If Mickey does come back through the door to find him there, so be it. But he certainly isn't waiting.

He drifts off after about an hour of not waiting.

He's awoken by a loud banging.

He sits up sharply, reaching for his gun. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and stands up. Any grogginess is washed away by adrenaline.

The banging sounds again, louder this time. It's coming from the front door.

Outside, rain thunders against the window. It's dark in Ian's apartment, but he doesn't dare reach for the light switch. He creeps across the living room, his bare feet silent against the floorboards.

He approaches the door slowly and peers through the spyhole.

"What the fuck?"

He wrenches it open. Shark is carrying Eddie, who's dripping blood and rainwater onto Ian's doorstep.

"How the fuck do you know where I live?" Ian demands.

Shark pushes past him without a word. Eddie is groaning. Her shirt is soaked red. Shark lowers her onto Ian's sofa then goes straight for the kitchen, getting out Ian's first aid kit.

Ian closes the door behind him, locking it. A part of him really wants to know how Shark seems to know everything about him and where he keeps his medical supplies.

The other part is mentally planning which part of the city he's going to move to. He flicks on the light, watching Shark move across the living room. He picks his shirt up off the back of the armchair, pulling it on.

If this turns violent, he at least wants to be fully clothed.

Shark peels back Eddie's sticky shirt. There's a deep gash in the side of her torso, steadily oozing blood… onto Ian's sofa no less.

Shark wipes the wound with disinfectant. Eddie groans through clenched teeth, gripping onto the cushions of the sofa. "Fucking watch it!" she snaps.

Ian sits on the arm of the sofa, watching Shark clean her up. "How long do you plan on staying? This isn't a walk-in clinic."

"Go fuck yourself, brat," Eddie spits. "I've been fucking stabbed."

"By who?"

She's breathing heavily, her face a sickly green colour. "By none of your fucking business."

"It became my business when you walked into my fucking house."

"Believe me, if we'd had other options we would've fucking taken them."

Shark hands her a rag, which she stuffs in her mouth. He begins stitching her wound and her screams are muffled. Ian rolls his eyes and wanders into the kitchen, getting himself a beer from the fridge.

He sits in the chair opposite the sofa. Shark is wrapping Eddie's wound now. It looks ghastly. The skin is bruised and discoloured around the edges. She lies back on the sofa, shutting her eyes.

"Who was it?" Ian asks. "Are they going to show up on my doorstep? You'd better tell me."

Eddie sighs. "Get me one of those beers, Shark." Ian scowls as Shark gets up and raids his fridge. He helps himself to a bottle as well.

"Well?" Ian prompts as Eddie sips the beer.

"If they show up here, just bat your eyes and pretend you don't know what they're talking about," Eddie says.

"Encouraging," Ian says flatly.

"It's just a couple of guys from the business. Got assigned the same target. Had a disagreement."

"Are you fucking kidding me? And you came here? I need to start house hunting."

"Fucking relax," Eddie says. "They're idiots, both of them. They'll look at you and see a slutty brat, not a killer. They'll leave you alone."

"And if they don't?" Ian raises an eyebrow and Eddie frowns.

"You do not have permission to fucking kill them. One's a rookie, lots of potential, supposedly. The other one has been in the business for years. Some Irish import. Bennett will cook you on a spitfire."

Ian scoffs. "Mary fucking Bennett doesn't scare me."

"Well she should." Eddie glances at Shark. He sits silently on the end of the couch, nursing his beer. He isn't wearing his glasses for a change, Ian notices. He looks younger without them, his eyes large and dark.

"Look," Eddie says, "if they show up here and try to give you trouble, just get out as soon as you can, then call us. We'll handle it."

"Handle it… by killing them?"

"You know there are other solutions to problems… we'll let Bennett take care of it."

Ian rolls his eyes, draining his beer. "Right."

There's a noise at the front door and all three of them reach for their guns simultaneously. Eddie's movements are sluggish. She still looks pale.

There's a rattling of keys. Ian pauses. There's only one person who has a key to his place…

He points his gun at Eddie before the door swings open.

"Hey, I got takeaway, don't know if you like—Jesus fucking Christ!" Mickey drops the takeaway bag and steps back, hands raised.

"Who the fuck is this, Gallagher?" Eddie hisses, her eyes trained on Mickey.

"Put your guns down or I'll shoot both your fucking heads off," Ian snarls. Shark glances between Ian and Mickey, looking conflicted. "Fucking do it!" Ian can hear the hysteria in his own voice.

Slowly, Shark lowers his gun, putting it on the coffee table. Then he folds his arms and leans back, observing the scene as if it were a school play.

Eddie doesn't budge. "Tell me who he is," she says, staring at Mickey, whose eyes are wide with panic.

"Ian…"

"Put your gun down or I swear to God I'll fucking kill you," Ian hisses.

When Eddie doesn't move, he shoots the sofa, right above her head. Mickey flinches, and Eddie gives a shout of surprise, lowering her gun. "Fucking hell, relax! Holy shit. What is this, your boyfriend? Must be a really good fucking lay."

Ian walks over to Mickey, putting himself between him and Eddie, who's still holding her gun. He picks up the fallen takeaway bag and ushers Mickey into the kitchen. He hopes the gunshot doesn't bring the neighbours… or the police.

"You wanna tell me who these freaks are?" Mickey says, glancing at the couch.

"Tell the street trash to watch his tone," Eddie calls.

"You watch your fuckin' tone," Mickey shouts back. He glances at the gun in Ian's hand. "Hey, uh, how about you put that thing away?" He touches Ian's hand but Ian pulls away. There's still too much adrenaline rushing through him. He wants to break something.

"They're… work colleagues," he says eventually.

"They fuckin' kill people too?" Mickey hisses. "Jesus. Could've mentioned that before I told that one to watch her fuckin' tone. This a common thing? Having these types around your house?"

Ian shakes his head. "They just showed up."

Mickey glances at them. Eddie is keeping a close eye on them from the sofa, while Shark is quietly packing away the medical supplies. Ian wonders if anything ever fazes him.

"They leaving any time soon?" Mickey asks.

"As soon as I can make them," Ian says, scowling.

Mickey shakes his head, exasperated, then picks up the takeaway bag. "Got you Thai food."

"Your way of apologising?" Ian says, unpacking one of the containers.

"Got nothing to apologise for," Mickey says, taking a bite out of a spring roll.

They eat in silence. It's still raining heavily outside, lightning flashing across the skyline. Ian watches Eddie and Shark from the kitchen. They're murmuring in low voices, and keep glancing at Ian and Mickey.

Ian doesn't like this. He doesn't like that they know about Mickey. He wants them gone. Now.

Once he's finished eating, he puts his container in the bin and goes back into the living room. Eddie is dozing, Shark sitting at the foot of the sofa. Even sitting down, he's almost at eye level with Ian.

"I want you two out before morning," Ian says quietly. Shark glances at Mickey and Ian grabs him by the collar. Shark raises an eyebrow, easily prying his hand off. He gives Ian a firm warning look before releasing his hand. Ian’s fingers ache a little. “He’s just some guy I fuck,” Ian says. “I don’t want him involved.”

Shark frowns, dubious, but doesn’t challenge him. He looks at Eddie, the furrow in his brow deepening. Even Ian has to admit, she doesn't look good. There's a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her skin is sallow.

He sighs. "Fine. You can put her in the bedroom for the night. But if she's still bad tomorrow, you take her to a hospital or someplace else. She can't stay here."

Shark nods in acceptance before crouching to pick Eddie up. She's like a doll in his thick arms.

He takes her into the bedroom and doesn't re-emerge. Ian assumes he'll be staying with her then. Mickey is watching him from the kitchen with a frown.

"Guess they're spending the night?" he says when Ian joins him again. "Want me to go?"

"You probably should," Ian says. "In case the guys who stabbed her show up."

"Great," Mickey says. "And if they do, what happens to you?"

Ian tilts his head. "Are you worried about me, Mickey?"

Mickey rolls his eyes, scoffing. He opens his mouth, then looks away. "Would you really have shot them?" he asks softly. "You know, before, when they… would you have killed them if they'd tried to…?"

"Yes," Ian says without hesitation. "And mutilated their corpses." He's only sort of joking.

Mickey just looks at him for a few seconds. "That the psycho talking, or…?"

"Or what?"

"Would you do it if it was anyone else? If it wasn't me."

Ian stares, words suddenly evading him. His throat feels dry. He stammers, then looks away. Mickey just watches him. "What does it matter?" he says at last.

Mickey is quiet for a moment. He moves closer to Ian. "It matters to me," he says. "Come on, Ian. Why me?"

He's pressing Ian against the kitchen counter, his hands on Ian's hips. Ian can smell the rain in his hair. "Mickey," he whispers. "Mick…"

"Fuck, _tell_ me, Ian. Would you kill for me?"

He sounds almost feverish. Excited. Ian doesn't think it's intentional. Mickey looks angry—or like he's trying to be. He's staring at Ian, his cheeks flushed, his jaw quivering.

"You know I would," Ian says quietly.

"So tell me why."

Ian shakes his head. "I don't know why. I just would."

Mickey takes a deep breath. "You kill for anyone else?"

Ian laughs. "A lot of people. I'm an assassin, Mickey."

"Anyone who wasn't paying."

Ian frowns. "If someone asked, maybe."

"That's not what I mean. Is there anyone else you would…"

"Only you. I only care about you."

Mickey shuts his eyes, nodding. "You're going to ruin me, Gallagher," he whispers. "Tell me why. I need to hear you say it. Why am I different?"

"Please don't ask me that."

"Fuck you," Mickey hisses, and now he's close, so close. Ian can feel his breaths against his face. "I put up with so much of your bullshit. The least you can give me is a straight fucking answer."

"I'm a psychopath, Mickey. I don't have an answer for you."

"Bullshit," Mickey spits, slamming the countertop next to Ian with his fist. "That's bullshit and you know it. I'm sick of that excuse. It's three words, Ian. Just fucking say them."

Ian shakes his head, then laughs breathlessly. "What about you?"

Mickey hesitates. "What about me?"

"Well, you're not exactly being honest, are you? Admit it. You _like_ how fucked up I am."

Mickey scoffs. "I _like_ it? Well that’s projection if I’ve ever heard it.”

He tries to step away but Ian grabs his wrists, pulling him flush against his body. Mickey's breathing is ragged. He stares up at Ian and doesn't move.

"You fucking want me, don't you?" Ian says. "Knowing I'd shoot someone in the head—for _you._ That gets you so hard, doesn't it?"

Mickey makes a small, distressed noise in the back of his throat. "No," he says hoarsely.

"No? What if someone hurt you, so I stabbed them in the heart?" Ian grins. "Does that make you feel good, Mickey? Knowing the lengths I would go to for you?"

"Shut up," Mickey snaps, yanking his hands out of Ian's hold. "You're projecting your fucked up bullshit onto me."

Ian exhales, shutting his eyes. "When I told you I was a killer, you didn't run away from me, you ran towards me."

Mickey's bottom lip trembles. He's shaking his head, one hand tight around Ian's arm; tight enough to make Ian wince.

Ian touches Mickey's face, delicate, gentle.

"Do you love me, Mickey?"

Mickey stares at him, speechless.

There's a knock on the door.

At once, Ian has his gun out. Shark emerges from the bedroom. He frowns, nodding at the front door. Ian glances at Mickey, who hasn't moved.

"Stay here," he murmurs. He isn't sure if Mickey hears him.

He creeps across the living room, glancing through the spyhole. There are two men in the hallway. One with dark, shaggy hair and thick stubble, the other younger, with pale skin and cropped blonde hair.

Ian looks at Shark, whose expression darkens. He nods at the door before slipping back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

Ian inhales, shutting his eyes for a moment. He tucks his gun into the back of his sweatpants and plasters on a lazy grin before opening the door.

"Yeah?" he says, lounging against the doorframe.

The men look adequately surprised.

"Hello sir," says the shaggier man. He has a strong Irish accent. "Just wondering if you might've seen a couple of our friends earlier this afternoon. Word says they came into this building. Asian woman, lots of tattoos, and a big fellow. Very big. Quite hard to miss."

Ian shrugs. "Not sure I can help you there. I've been inside all day. Working from home and all."

He runs a hand through his hair and lets his sweatpants ride low on his hips. He wants them to feel uncomfortable.

The Irish man is unfazed. But his companion sneers.

"Yeah? You sure you didn't let anyone inside?"

Ian smiles, crossing his arms. "I'm more of a top, actually." From the corner of his eye, he can see Mickey in the kitchen, watching him. He clears his throat. "I actually have a client to get back to, if it's all the same to you two."

The younger man looks like he wants to protest, but his companion smiles pleasantly. "Not to worry. Sorry to bother you, sir."

He glances down and something catches his eye. Ian goes cold when he sees it.

There are drops of blood on the doorstep.

Eddie's blood.

The Irish man crouches to examine them. He smiles up at Ian. "You should probably clean this up. Blood can be quite difficult to get out when you leave it too long."

Ian forces a smile. "Thanks for the tip."

"Good evening to you," the man says, before he and his companion walk away.

Ian closes the door and bolts it, shutting his eyes.

_The blood. Always clean up the fucking blood._


	14. Not so human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** The violence and typical trauma associated with murder in this chapter is a bit more intense than usual. Things get pretty dark - there's a strong association between violence and sex in Ian's mind (although nothing non-con, if you're worried about that).

"What are they waiting for?" Mickey asks, peering through the curtains. Ian pulls him away from the window.

"Stop looking."

Mickey raises his hands defensively, shrugging. "Just wanna know when I can fuckin' leave."

"They're probably waiting until they can catch Ian off guard," Eddie says from the bed. She's gotten worse as the night has worn on, dark rings appearing under eyes and her lips draining of colour. "They still think he's just a whore. Technically, they're right."

Despite her snark, her voice is weak. She's shaking and sweating. Shark had to stitch her wound up again earlier, after the first stitches came loose. He's watching her with concern now. If she doesn't get proper medical attention soon, she probably won't make it. They're all thinking it.

"You need a hospital," Ian says.

Eddie shakes her head. "I leave this building, they shoot me and Shark. And probably your boyfriend too."

"They can't be that desperate to kill you," Ian says. "Over a mutual target?"

Eddie and Shark exchange a look, then Eddie sighs. "Okay listen. It's not just about… a disagreement." Shark pins her with a stare, shaking his head and Eddie grimaces.

"No," Ian says, standing next to the bed. "You're not keeping this from me. Tell me why they're after you."

Eddie is still looking at Shark. He's frowning, defiant. Ian watches their wordless conversation impatiently. Shark nods at Mickey, and Eddie rolls her eyes. "Tell your boyfriend to leave the room."

Mickey looks irritated, but Ian nods. "Not his fuckin' boyfriend," he says as he shuts the door behind him. Ian wonders if he's listening at the door. Probably. He'd do the same.

After an extended silence, Eddie quietly says, "Doyle was my handler on a recent job. The Irish guy. He was supposed to pass on the target profile. Except he gave me the wrong file."

Ian narrows his eyes. "So?"

Eddie lowers her gaze. "The USB drive he gave me contained sensitive information. About the organisation."

"What about it?"

"Fucking _confidential_ information." When Ian raises an eyebrow, she rolls her eyes. "Names. Past targets. Safe houses. All that shit."

Ian whistles. "That's quite the fuck up."

"Doyle wants me dead before I can leak it. Or at least, tell anyone he fucked up and gave it to me. I'm lucky Shark was with me when they came after me the first time."

Ian frowns. "Just give them their stupid USB back. What's the big deal?"

Eddie shakes her head, resigned. "I'm compromised, Gallagher." She's silent for a moment. Shark looks distant, worried. It's more emotion than Ian's ever seen him display.

Eventually, Eddie sighs. "Bennett doesn't know yet, which is one up side to this. If Doyle tells her he fucked up, he's in as much shit as I am."

"So they want to deal with you quietly," Ian says. "Remind me again why we can't just kill them?"

"We do that and Bennett starts asking questions."

Ian clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Fuck Bennett."

"Be careful, Gallagher. She's a very powerful woman."

"Nothing a bullet to the brain can't fix."

Eddie looks tired. "The best thing I can do right now is disappear."

Shark grunts, nudging Ian out of the way so he can crouch next to Eddie. His hand on her shoulder is gentle, his eyes tender.

"After I go to the hospital," Eddie amends, rolling her eyes. Shark nods, standing back up. "There any other ways out of this building?" she asks. "Besides the front."

"There's a fire escape down the back," Ian says.

He bites his lip, hesitating a moment before reaching into his bedside drawer and taking out his car keys. "You can take my car. It's parked in a lot out back." When Eddie gives him a dubious look he scowls, shoving his keys into Shark's hands. "Just take them. I want you gone. You already bled all over my sofa and doorstep, I don't need you dying in my bed too."

The corner of Eddie's mouth twitches. "Thanks Gallagher."

"Yeah, whatever," Ian says, reaching for the doorknob.

“Gallagher,” Eddie says, and he turns. “That boyfriend of yours…”

“Not my boyfriend.”

She frowns, looking at Shark, then back at Ian. “He knows about you?” Ian presses his lips together and says nothing. “Be careful,” Eddie says. “If you give a shit about him, you’ll be very careful.”

Gritting his jaw, Ian opens the door. As predicted, Mickey is right on the other side. He clears his throat when Ian emerges. "Well?"

"They're leaving," Ian says, heading into the kitchen and grabbing himself a beer. If he had something stronger, he'd be drinking it.

"Thank fuck," Mickey says.

"So are you."

Mickey huffs, nodding. "Figured you'd say that."

"I don't need you getting in the way when they show up."

"You gonna kill them?"

Ian looks away. "Eddie doesn't want me to."

"Not what I asked."

Ian hums. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On my mood."

Mickey rolls his eyes, picking up his jacket off the kitchen counter. "Right. Well, guess I'll get going then." He hesitates at the front door. "Try not to die. These guys sound like serious business."

Ian smiles. "I'm good at not dying."

"I know."

Once Mickey has gone, Ian goes to the living room window, looking at the dark street below. Doyle's car is still parked across the road, under a streetlight. Ian watches Mickey as he appears at the front door and walks down the street, until he disappears from view.

Ian waits a few minutes, sipping his beer, making sure Doyle and his companion don't follow. Once he's satisfied that they've ignored Mickey, he tosses his empty bottle into the recycling and goes back to the bedroom.

Shark is helping Eddie stand up. Her legs shake and she's breathing through her teeth.

"You gonna be able to make it down the fire escape?" Ian asks dubiously.

"We'll see," she says. "Shark can always carry me."

"Down a ladder?" Shark nods as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Ian raises an eyebrow. "Of course he can."

He leads them into the hallway and pushes open the heavy fire exit door while Shark helps Eddie walk. She winces with every step. The bandages around her torso are dotted with red.

When they reach the escape door, Ian holds it open for them. The cold night air rushes in, along with the smell of rain. The metal railing is still damp.

Eddie hesitates, looking back. "Thanks, Gallagher. I know you weren't exactly a willing participant, but you kind of saved my life."

Ian regards the two of them for a moment. "Just bring my car back in one piece," he says before letting the door swing closed.

When he gets back to his apartment, he puts on a pot of coffee. It's going to be a long night.

It's around one when Ian hears a noise out in the hall. He's half-asleep on the sofa—caffeine only gets you so far—but the noise has him on his feet, gun in hand. The doorknob jiggles and he creeps across the room, pressing himself against the wall.

The door swings open and he almost shoots.

"Mickey! What the fuck are you doing here?"

Ian slams the door behind him, hurriedly locking it. Mickey looks at him, then the gun in his hand. "Fuck, you're still alive."

"What is wrong with you?" Ian snaps, slamming a startled Mickey against the wall. "I could have fucking shot you."

Mickey swallows, gaze flicking to Ian's gun. "Couldn't sleep."

"Take a fucking sleeping pill." Ian holds him there for a few seconds before letting go. Mickey rubs his wrists, frowning.

"The freaks showed up yet?"

"No," Ian says. "I don't need you here, Mickey. You shouldn't have come. The more you’re here, the more they’ve seen your face." He runs a hand through his hair, sucking in a breath.

“Jesus, I didn’t realise you gave so much of a shit,” Mickey says.

“You could die, Mickey. Maybe _you_ should start giving a shit.” Ian returns to his spot on the sofa, keeping his gun in hand. When Mickey doesn't move, Ian sighs. "You can sleep in my room, just lock the door."

Mickey gives him a weary look. "So this is the plan? Sit here and wait for them to break in?" Ian nods and Mickey laughs, exasperated. "And how long do you plan on waiting? When are you gonna sleep?"

"When they're dead."

"I thought you weren't allowed to kill them."

Ian shrugs. "Never stopped me before."

Mickey looks tired. He rubs his face with a resigned nod. "Right well, guess I'll be in the bedroom then." He hesitates a moment, as if he wants to say something else, but then he looks away, heading into the bedroom without another word.

Ian settles back into his position on the sofa, holding his gun in his lap.

By two o'clock, his eyelids are heavy and his brain sluggish. Mickey hasn't emerged from the bedroom so Ian assumes he's asleep. He doesn't like that he's here.

By three, all Ian wants to do is crawl into bed with Mickey and go to sleep. Maybe even wake him up and fuck him, nice and slow, before passing out.

He lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, picturing Mickey's mouth around his cock. The only thing worse than being tired is being bored. They're a deadly combo...

When Ian startles awake again, it's past four. He curses under his breath, jumping up. The front door is still closed and bolted, as is the bedroom. He walks over to the window, looking at the street below.

The car is gone.

Ian sinks with relief. They've left. Hopefully they've realised Eddie isn't here anymore and have fucked off somewhere else.

Ian hears a click next to his ear.

"Up late, aren't we?" says a soft, Irish voice.

Ian goes very still, swallowing.

"Bedroom door is locked," says the other man. He has a gun in his hand as well. This is going to be difficult.

"Turn around slowly," Doyle says to Ian. He does. Doyle smiles, calm. He nods at the bedroom door. "Our girl in there?"

Ian says nothing, remaining completely placid. Doyle looks at his companion.

"Pick the lock, Bill. Quietly. If our little redhead friend here screams, we shoot his brains out."

Bill nods, taking a box out of his backpack and working on the door.

If Bill is any good, Ian has about twenty seconds before he gets the door unlocked.

"You're wondering how we got in, aren't you?" Doyle says, still smiling. He nods at the kitchen, where a piece of the ceiling has been moved aside. "Vents. Nothing wrong with old fashioned."

Ian glances at Bill. He's slipped his lockpick into the door.

"Quite brave of you to try and protect these people," Doyle goes on. "What leverage do they have over you, I wonder?" He pats Ian's cheek. "Don't worry, they'll be dead in a moment. If you comply, we might even let you live."

It's a lie Ian's told countless times. No witnesses, that's the rule. He keeps his eyes on Doyle.

"Door's stubborn," Bill says. "Almost got it."

Ian can see the handle of his gun between the sofa cushions. It's too far away to reach.

"Be ready," Doyle says. "The big guy isn't going to stand by idly."

He looks away from Ian for just a moment.

It's enough.

Ian kicks his knee up into Doyle's crotch, making him yelp and double over. In the same movement, he slams his foot into Doyle's jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor. He catches his arm and twists it behind his back, prying his gun free.

Before Bill can react, Ian has the gun aimed at Doyle's head. "Move and I blow his brains out," he says, holding Doyle up by his hair. "Drop the gun."

Bill is frozen, hands tight around his gun. "He's one of them," Doyle spits out, along with a mouthful of blood. "Do what he says."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Bill says, aiming his gun at Ian. "This little fag?"

"Do what I say, runt!" Doyle snaps.

Mouth twisted into a scowl, Bill crouches and tosses his gun onto the floor.

Ian smiles, exhaling. "Good lad." He points his gun at Bill and shoots him in the head.

Doyle snarls and slams the back of his head into Ian's face. Ian gasps, pain exploding through his nose. He's dazed for a moment, and the gun falls from his hand, skidding across the floorboards.

Doyle scrambles for it but Ian kicks it away. Spinning around, Doyle aims a punch at Ian's head, which he narrowly dodges. He punches back, but Doyle blocks him with his arm.

They circle each other for a few moments. Doyle's calm, collected facade is gone. He's a beacon of rage, his long hair hanging in his face, his teeth grit.

By the bedroom door, Bill lies dead, his blood splattered against the wall.

Doyle lunges first, barrelling into Ian and knocking the air out of him. He slams him into the wall. Ian hits the back of his head, stunned for a dizzying moment.

He recovers quickly, kicking Doyle hard in the stomach. Doyle grunts, but blocks Ian's next hit. Ian swings again, but this time Doyle catches his wrist. He twists it hard.

Ian cries out, pain shooting up his arm. He drives his knee into Doyle's ribs. There's a satisfying crack and Doyle yells, stumbling backward. Ian runs at him but stops short when Doyle pulls out a knife.

For a moment, they're both still. Through his bloody teeth, Doyle smiles. "It's been fun playing with you, but I think it's time I end this, don't you?"

Ian backs away, but Doyle throws himself at him, knocking him to the ground. He thrusts the knife at Ian's chest but Ian grabs the hilt, pushing up against him.

Doyle is stronger.

Ian strains, pushing until his arms ache. But the knife sinks lower, creeping towards his chest. He grips onto the blade, even as it slices into his hand, desperately trying to push it away.

Doyle laughs, his eyes glittering. Ian wonders if this is what his targets normally see before he kills them.

"You're the little brat Bennett is always complaining about, aren't you?" Doyle says. "I should have known. Ginger psycho, she said."

Doyle pushes harder and the very tip of the knife sinks into Ian's flesh. He winces, breathing through his clenched teeth.

"I'll be doing her a favour getting rid of you."

There's a loud _bang_ and Doyle's blood sprays across Ian's face. Ian flinches sharply, letting go of the knife as Doyle goes limp. He pushes Doyle's body off himself and scrambles to his feet.

Mickey is standing on the other side of the room, Bill's gun clutched in his shaking hands. He's staring at Doyle's bloody corpse with wide eyes, his nostrils flaring.

"Mickey…"

Before Ian can move, Mickey strides over and points the gun at Doyle's dead body. He shoots it, three times in the back of the head.

Ian jumps, startled by the fury in Mickey's face. He swallows, slowly reaching out. Mickey looks at him sharply, then back at Doyle's body. He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

"F-fuck…" He drops the gun and steps back, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, Ian…"

Ian watches him, his heart racing. "I'm here, Mickey."

"I didn't—I didn't mean to." He looks at Ian frantically, his eyes sparkling with tears. "Shit, I—I just—"

Ian puts his hands on Mickey's shoulders. His left palm stings sharply. It's bleeding fairly steadily, and he gets blood on Mickey's shirt. His head is throbbing, and his arm still aches where Doyle twisted it.

He can't bring himself to care about any of those things.

"You saved my life, Mickey," he says softly.

"I—I just fuckin' killed someone," Mickey says hoarsely, fixated on Doyle's body.

Ian brushes Mickey's cheek, smearing blood across it. "How do you feel?"

Mickey looks at him like a startled deer, his eyes darting back and forth. "F-fucking angry," he says shakily. He presses himself into Ian's arms and clings to him.

Ian sighs deeply and shuts his eyes, holding onto Mickey. He _burns_ with endorphins, adrenaline. All his fear and anger has melted away. Now, it's just ecstasy.

Mickey pushes his face into Ian's neck, breathing hard. "I—I think I'm in love with you, Ian."

And just like that, Ian comes crashing down.

He pulls away. "W-what?"

Mickey glances at the dead body on the floor next to them, then back at Ian. "I just killed someone for you," he says, as if he still can't believe it. "I fuckin' love you." The anger is still there. Passion.

Ian gapes at him, stammering. "B-but I'm a—"

"You make me feel human too, Ian."

Ian can't speak. He stares at Mickey, his eyes burning. When he kisses him, it's heated, desperate. He clings to Mickey, digging his fingers into his hair.

Mickey moans softly against his mouth. It's a faint sound, almost a whine. He grinds into Ian, his hands roaming over his hips. Ian lets Mickey press him into the wall, lets him run his hands over his body, lets him kiss his way up his throat.

"Fuck me, Ian," he breathes against Ian's neck. "I need you inside me. I fucking need you."

Ian's fingers shake as he unbuttons Mickey's shirt. His hand still drips with blood, the gashes deep. Over Mickey's shoulder, Ian can see the messy spray of blood on the wall near the bedroom, as well as the thick pool around Doyle's body.

_Mickey killed someone for me._

He kisses Mickey feverishly, groaning when he feels the press of his erection through his jeans.

When he draws away, Mickey has blood on his face. Ian catches sight of his reflection in the window and laughs weakly. His face is still splattered with blood, his hair wild and messy, sticking to his forehead.

"Sofa," he says.

Mickey scrambles back, lying down. Ian kneels between his thighs, grinding against him.

"Fuck," Mickey gasps, wrapping his legs around Ian's hips. Ian grins as he kisses him, squeezing Mickey's ass through his jeans. "Ian—c-condom. Lube."

"Hmm, wouldn't you like to feel me raw?" Ian purrs, sucking on the skin of Mickey's neck.

Mickey runs his hands beneath Ian's shirt, sinking his fingers into his back. "Condom," he hisses. "G-go get it."

Ian sits up, rolling his eyes. Mickey is flushed beneath him, his dark hair messy and his skin damp and pale. "You're so fucking sexy," Ian breathes against his neck. "I'm going to make you feel so good, Mickey. I want to _ruin_ you."

Mickey shivers, watching Ian climb off the sofa. Ian steps over Bill's body to get into the bedroom, glancing back at Mickey. He's very resolutely not looking at either of the bodies.

"Mickey… do you want to stop?" Ian asks.

Mickey looks up, his eyes inadvertently flicking to Bill's corpse. He swallows and shakes his head. Ian waits, but he doesn't say anything.

"All right." Ian goes into the bedroom and opens the nightstand drawer, looking for condoms and lube.

He hesitates. There's a USB drive at the top of the drawer, resting on top of his socks. _Confidential_ , reads the sticker on it.

_Those fuckers._

Ian buries the thing at the bottom of the drawer. Something to deal with later.

When he gets back into the living room, Mickey is standing next to Doyle's body. His breathing is heavy. He looks numb.

"Mickey," Ian says softly, approaching him.

"I did this," Mickey says quietly. His voice betrays no emotion. "Why don't I feel guilty?" Ian touches his arm and he flinches, looking up. "You. You got into my head. Fucked me up."

"You love me, Mickey."

"Yeah. I'm in love with a fucking psychopath." He looks up at Ian, his jaw tight. "Do you love me?"

Ian opens his mouth.

There's a knock on the door.

They both startle. "Shit," Mickey hisses, looking around the room in a panic. It's a mess. Blood everywhere, not to mention the two dead bodies with bullet holes in them.

Mickey looks at Ian frantically. "What do we do?" When Ian doesn't move, Mickey grips his shoulder, shaking it. " _Ian._ "

Before Ian can respond, the door clicks open. Doris, his landlady, peers inside. "Oh, Ian dear, would you mind removing the bolt?"

Both he and Mickey look at her, bewildered. Ian starts to approach her but Mickey grabs his arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"It's just Doris," Ian says, shrugging. Mickey gapes as he slides the bolt off the door and opens it, letting Doris in.

She takes one look at the mess and shakes her head. "Oh, Ian. I had a feeling this day would come at some point. Come now, we'd best get it cleaned up. Those gunshots will have woken up half the building."

She ambles over to Doyle's body, frowning. "Who were these men?"

"Bad people," Ian says. Doris nods, adjusting her glasses and patting him on the shoulder.

"Good lad." She smiles up at Mickey. "And who is this?"

"He's—"

"I'm his fiancé."

"Ah! You're getting married, Ian. How wonderful. Well, let's find somewhere for these bodies—I'm sure you have a few go-to spots. If the police show up asking about the gunshots, I'll just tell them I saw a raccoon in my kitchen…"

Ian stares at Mickey. He's convinced he misheard.

_I'm his fiancé._

Those words ring through his skull, making his entire body feel warm. Fuck, but all he wants right now is to lose himself in Mickey’s arms. Kiss every inch of his body. Listen to him whisper Ian's name. And those three words. _I love you._

Mickey catches his eye. He’s shaken, terrified. But Ian smiles.

_You just killed someone for me._

****

"Mickey… Mickey killed someone."

Miller feels cold, lightheaded.

Gallagher is unfazed. He sits there, as if he's talking about the fucking weather. No, it's worse. He's happy. _Proud._

Miller stares at him, feeling sick. "You're lying. He didn't do it. It was you."

"Look at me," Gallagher says, lifting his cuffed hands the few inches he can. The bandages on his wrists are speckled with blood. "I'm here forever. They have me on more drugs than you'll find in a pharmacy. Every other month I try to kill myself, because why not? I have no reason to lie."

Miller is struggling to hold back angry tears. “Then you forced him to do it,” she hisses.

Gallagher laughs softly, smiling. “If you’d seen him… He knew exactly what he was doing. And it made him feel _good._ He loved me.”

Miller’s fist is so tight around her pen, it trembles. “You vile piece of shit. He didn’t love you. You’re not _human._ ”

Gallagher is still smiling. Miller wants to rip his throat out. “Maybe Mickey wasn’t as human as you think he was.”


	15. Descending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are simultaneously getting better and worse for Mickey.

It takes a lot for Miller to convince herself to come back. She doesn’t know how to explain to them that her research has led to emotional attachment. She doesn’t think it will do well to mention that looking Gallagher in the eye makes her want to throttle him.

But she has to finish this. There’s still so much unsaid. She needs to get to the bottom of the story.

When she sits down at the table, pen and notes in hand, Gallagher smiles at her. “Hello Doctor. Long time no see.”

“Tell me more about Mickey,” she says tightly. She isn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

Gallagher sighs, leaning back in his chair. His wrists are no longer bandaged, but there are pink scars across his pale skin. “That’s all we seem to talk about, isn’t it? Mickey. Why aren’t you interested in anyone else? I killed a lot of people, you know.”

She knows. Christ, does she know.

“What was he really like?” she asks. “Was he… like you?”

She’s been dreading asking that question the past three weeks. Now that it’s out, it hangs in the air between them like a dreadful poison.

Gallagher cocks his head. “You mean like a psychopath?” She nods slowly. “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

She inhales. “Was that the only time he killed someone?”

Gallagher bites his lip, thoughtful. “Technically, I suppose.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means killing people isn’t the only fucked up thing you can do.”

****

“Wait in the car. I gotta talk to Svetlana before you come inside.”

Ian smiles, nodding. He’s struggling to contain his excitement. He leans out the car window as Mickey crosses the street. This is Mickey’s house. Mickey is showing Ian where he lives. Ian is going to meet Mickey’s _son._

Ian and Mickey are getting married.

The house itself is nothing to brag about. There’s an old desk on the browning lawn, and the paint on the front door is chipped and flaking away. It’s only one storey, and the bars on the windows are rusted.

But it’s where Mickey lives. It’s where he goes after he’s fucked Ian. When he’s finished work. Where he sleeps and eats.

A tall woman with dark hair answers the door. Ian recognises her. Mickey’s wife. She glances over Mickey’s shoulder at Ian in the car. Her gaze isn’t friendly. They share a few words; there’s a bit of hand waving and eye-rolling, then Mickey walks back to the car.

“She says you can come in.” He looks irritated. It isn’t enough to put a damper on Ian’s mood. He hops out the car and follows Mickey inside.

Modest is a generous word for it. The furniture is sparse, just a sofa and coffee table in the living room, and there’s only one chair at the dining table. The paint on the walls is a dusty yellow, faded and peeling. There’s a smell of old smoke and vodka.

Mickey looks uncomfortable, scowling as he nods at his wife, who’s standing in the kitchen with her arms folded. “Svetlana, Ian. Yeah, you know the deal.”

There’s a blonde toddler sitting in the middle of the living room floor, chewing on the corner of a metal flask. Ian wonders if it’s empty.

He smiles and crouches. “Is this Yevgeny?” The toddler looks at him, his blue eyes wide. They’re just like Mickey’s. Ian reaches for him and Svetlana curses in Russian.

“No. Psychopath does not touch baby. That was part of our deal.”

Ian pauses, glancing between them. Mickey rolls his eyes, rubbing his face. “Fine. Ian, no baby. Svetlana and I are gonna have a chat.” They disappear into the bedroom, Svetlana’s eyes travelling over Ian, mistrustful.

Their murmurs grow to shouts. Ian can’t tell what’s being said, but catches the occasional ‘fuck’. He looks at Yevgeny. The child is watching him with large, curious eyes. He reaches out a tiny pink hand. Ian glances at the bedroom door before holding out his finger, letting Yevgeny grab onto it. He sits in front of him, cross-legged.

“I’m going to be your stepdad, Yevgeny,” he says. The toddler makes a gurgling sound. He gets it, Ian thinks.

The bedroom door slams open and Ian pulls his hand away quickly.

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business!” Mickey shouts after Svetlana, who storms into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of vodka.

“It’s none of my business who my husband wants to marry? I disagree.” She takes a long sip of her drink, pointing her finger at Ian. “This boy is a murderer. You want to marry a murderer?”

Ian wonders how much Mickey has told her. How long has she known? Was she his confidant the first time Ian told him what he did for a living? The thought sparks a different kind of jealousy in Ian. _He_ should be that person for Mickey.

“What the fuck do you care?” Mickey says. “You don’t give a shit about me.”

“It is not you I give a shit about. It is Yevgeny. I do not need a son who murders people.”

“Ian won’t even be involved in his life. Right, Ian?” Mickey gives him a deliberate look and Ian smiles.

“No. I hate kids.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Bit much there, Gallagher. Point is, he’s not gonna be part of the kid’s life. And I can marry whoever the fuck I like.”

“Not without my signature on the divorce papers, you can’t,” Svetlana says coolly. “And what happens to me when you marry someone else? We get divorced, I get deported.”

Mickey clicks his tongue, waving his hand dismissively. “They’re not gonna fuckin’ deport you. If you’re really worried, find someone else to marry. What about the chick you’ve been banging? The one who owns that shitty bar? Victoria?”

“Veronica,” says Svetlana. “She is already married.”

“Then tell her to get a fuckin’ divorce. Takes five minutes.”

Svetlana looks at Ian, muttering something in Russian. “You want to keep fucking him, I do not care. No marriage.”

“I’m not askin’ your fuckin’ permission. I’ll go over your head if I have to. I don’t need your signature.” When Svetlana raises an eyebrow, Mickey sniffs. “I looked it up.”

“I can make the process very difficult for you,” Svetlana says. “If we get divorce, I get compensation. Child support, from orange psycho as well. And I keep the house.”

Mickey glances at Ian, who sits still. The pre-discussed plan was to let Mickey do the talking. Apparently, Ian can’t be trusted with delicate matters.

“How much?” Mickey asks.

“Two hundred a week.”

Mickey balks. “A _week_? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? I ain’t paying that in a month.”

“That is just for him. For you, one hundred a week.”

Ian tilts his head. “Why do I pay double?”

“Life insurance,” Svetlana says.

Mickey shakes his head, jaw clenched. “You’re asking us to pay a combined three hundred a week. No. No fuckin’ way. Try again.”

“Mickey,” Ian says, standing up. “Can I talk to you alone?”

Mickey looks at Svetlana before nodding. “We’re not fuckin’ done here,” he tells Svetlana, following Ian outside.

Once they’re alone, the door closed behind them, Ian leans in. “Do you need me to kill her?” he asks quietly.

Mickey blinks, horrified. “What? _No._ ”

“Are you sure?” Ian asks. “It would honestly solve a lot of our problems.”

“You’re not fuckin’ killing Svetlana!” Mickey hisses.

“Okay,” Ian says. “If you’re so sure. I can afford the child support.”

Mickey scoffs. “We’re not paying over a grand a month. We’ve just gotta negotiate her down to a lower rate.”

“Mickey.” Ian cups the back of Mickey’s neck, rubbing his fingers through his hair. “I don’t care about the money. I just want to marry you.”

Mickey’s frown softens. He sighs, resting his forehead against Ian’s. They stand in silence for a moment, Mickey threading his fingers through Ian’s hair. “I love you, Ian,” he says quietly.

Ian’s stomach flutters. He pulls away, swallowing.

Mickey laughs dryly. “You ever gonna say it back?”

Ian bites his tongue, looking away. “Let’s go back inside,” he says. Mickey sighs, but follows him.

Svetlana eyes them when they walk inside. She's poured herself another glass of vodka. Ian is admittedly impressed that she's able to drink it plain.

"We agree to your terms," he says. "Three hundred a week, and you sign the divorce papers." He glances at the toddler on the floor. "And we get to see Yevgeny once a week."

"No deal," Svetlana says.

"Fine. Once a month."

Svetlana lifts her chin. "Three-fifty a week, and you get to see him for an hour once a month. Here. Under my supervision."

"Deal," Ian says. He and Svetlana shake hands. Her gaze is hostile. Mickey is rubbing his face with his palm.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Okay, we settled then? You'll sign?"

"I will sign. Since you are so eager to marry Jeffrey Dahmer."

Mickey rolls his eyes, turning to Ian. "Why are you so desperate for the kid?" he murmurs.

"He looks like you," Ian says, smiling at Yevgeny.

Mickey scowls. "Poor bastard. So your lawyer can handle the papers?"

"By tomorrow," Ian says.

"Hear that, Svetlana? Tomorrow. We'll swing by in the afternoon."

"Bring first cheque," she says, picking Yevgeny off the floor. Mickey flips her off and Ian follows him back outside.

Once they’re in the car, Ian leans over and kisses Mickey deeply. “We’re getting married,” he says, grinning.

“Yeah.” Mickey’s smile is small, but genuine. “So, how are we doing this? Courthouse at three?”

Ian shakes his head. “No, we’re having a wedding.”

“A fuckin’ wedding?”

“Yeah. With vows and shit.”

“Oh, yeah. Vows. What are yours gonna say? Normally I kill the dudes I fuck, but I think I’m gonna spare this one.”

“No,” Ian says, frowning. “They’ll have all that romantic shit in them.”

“You can’t even tell me you love me.”

Ian bites his lip. “Fine. We’ll skip the vows. But I want a wedding. You have to wear a tux.”

Mickey looks at him dubiously. “You think a guy like me owns a fuckin’ tux?”

“I’ll buy you one,” Ian says, squeezing his shoulder. “We should have a bachelor party too.”

Mickey stares at him for a few moments, then laughs. “You’re really taking this all the way, aren’t you?”

“Well I don’t plan on getting married again. I want to have fun with it.”

Mickey looks away for a moment, like he’s trying not to smile. “Okay. Fine. So a bachelor party? How about tonight?”

“Can’t tonight. I have a job. Some perv. Apparently I’m his type.”

“Oh.” Mickey is quiet, and Ian wonders if he should have brought up his work. Until Mickey says, “Can I come?”

Ian blinks, certain he’s heard wrong. “Mickey, by ‘job’, I mean I’m killing someone. You realise that, right?”

“I know.”

Ian stares, trying to read him. He’s doing a very good job of keeping his features neutral. “You want to come with me while I… murder someone?”

Mickey nods slowly, as if he isn’t completely sure of his answer. “Yeah. I mean, we’re getting married, so… Through sickness and health and murder. All that romantic shit.”

“Okay… okay.” Ian looks away, trying to hide his grin.

He must not do a very good job, because Mickey says, “No need to look so fuckin’ excited.”

“I am excited,” Ian says. “You…” He swallows. “Do you want to like… watch?”

“Um…” Mickey shuts his eyes, his expression twisting. Too much, Ian thinks.

“You don’t have to.” He considers. “If it makes you feel better, he’s a bit of a pedo.”

“A little better. I’ll probably just hang back. Let you do your thing. Make sure you get home safe and all that bullshit.”

Ian tilts his head, smiling. “Are you worried about me, Mickey?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Of course I am. What if you fuck up and go to prison or some shit? I'll owe Svetlana three hundred and fifty bucks a week. You think I can afford that shit?"

Ian squeezes his shoulder, smirking. "You have nothing to worry about, Mickey. I never get caught."

****

Back when Ian worked at the Fairy Tail, he was barely making enough to buy food for the week. He was between homes as well, usually leeching overnight stays off the guys who took him home. Usually, they didn’t mind. Some of them paid for it, actually.

Ian owes this place a lot of credit. It’s where he learned, from a friendly stranger, that a lot of people are willing to pay for murder. It’s where he was given his first job. Low-level shit. Half a grand to take out some drug dealer who pocketed the product. An easy job, cut and run, literally. Ian spent a few months freelancing after that, until he was picked up by Bennett.

And that’s where the real money started coming in.

Regardless of how far he’s come, he feels a sense of nostalgia when he walks into the club. It’s hardly changed. Blue and purple lights, silver briefs on all the dancers, the smell of sugar and cheap spirits.

He managed to convince his old manager, Matt, to let him work for the night.

“My fiancé gets off on it,” he explains as he dresses.

Matt shakes his head. “I believe it. You sure you don’t want your tips? You’ll probably rake in a lot, looking like you do.”

Ian shakes his head as he strips out of his jeans and jumper. “Take them. Buy yourself a better brand of eyeliner.”

Matt glances at his reflection, snorting. “Forgot what a dick you can be. So who’s the lucky guy? No one I’ve fucked, I hope.”

“Unlikely,” Ian says, applying his own eyeliner. “He’s not into whores.”

“He’s marrying you, isn’t he?”

“I’m not a whore,” Ian says. "I'm like a whore, but I'm much classier." Matt gives him an amused look and he runs his fingers through his hair and heads out.

Mickey is at the bar, hand tight around his drink. He’s casting wary looks around the room.

Ian slides into the seat next to him, pressing his mouth against his ear. “You here alone, gorgeous?”

Mickey flinches, then relaxes when he sees Ian. “Jesus. It’s you.” He looks Ian up and down, his throat bobbing. “Shit. You get to keep the outfit afterwards?”

“Like what you see?” Ian says, licking his lips.

“Yeah. Just reminding me how fuckin' gay I am.” Mickey bites his tongue and reaches for Ian.

“It’s gonna cost you twenty dollars to touch,” Ian says, leaning away with a grin. Mickey flips him off and goes back to his drink.

“So where’s your dude?”

Ian nods at the stage. “Bald guy, blue tie.” He’s watching the other dancers from the sofa, drink in hand. Scott Gleeson. He’s a big-spender, according to the profile, and has a thing for barely legal boys. Ian ran into his type more than his fair share back in the day. He knows how to work them.

Mickey is watching the man with a stiff look on his face, his brow furrowed at the centre. He chews his lip and looks away. “Break a leg,” he mutters. Ian smiles, squeezing Mickey’s arm before striding over to the stage.

He brushes Gleeson’s thigh with his fingertips as he passes him. Gleeson’s eyes follow him as he walks onto the stage. He makes eye contact for a moment, looking away coyly before he dances.

He has the man’s attention.

Gleeson leans forward, tucking a crisp bill into Ian’s briefs. Ian catches Mickey watching from across the room. His hand is a fist on his knee, and his eyes are dark. Ian has seen that look a few times before. When he saw Ian with Kyle.

When he killed Doyle.

Ian turns his attention back to Gleeson, rocking his hips. He smiles, leaning down. “What brings a man such as yourself to a place like this?” he asks.

Gleeson swallows. “How old are you?”

Ian has to hold back a laugh. Straight to the point then.

“Twenty-one.” He looks away, diminishing the believability of his answer.

Gleeson notices. He smiles, leaning closer. “How old are you really? I won’t tell.”

_Of course you won’t._

Ian bites his lip. “Seventeen.”

Gleeson’s face lights up. “How much?”

“Thirty for a dance.”

“What about a private room?”

“Depends what you want.” Ian steps off the stage and takes Gleeson by the hand. “Why don’t we discuss it alone?” Gleeson follows him towards the private rooms like a leashed dog. Ian glances over his shoulder at Mickey. He hasn’t moved, but there’s an intensity to his gaze that makes Ian giddy. He grins at Mickey before slipping into one of the rooms. The Fairy Tail isn’t exactly known for its legal obedience, so there are no cameras back here. No one sees him.

Once inside, he shuts the door and draws the curtains. It’s lit red and purple, and there’s a sofa at the centre of the room. Gleeson sits down, gazing up at Ian. “Can I… may I touch you?”

Ian wets his lips. He’s forgotten how much he loves this part. The lure.

“Nothing below the waist,” he says, straddling Gleeson’s lap. Gleeson nods, running his hands over Ian’s torso and chest. Ian can feel the man’s hard on through his slacks. His breathing is heavy, his eyes roaming over Ian like he’s made of gold.

While Gleeson is distracted, Ian reaches into his shoe. The knife is small, the blade itself just a few inches. But it’s serrated. It’ll do the damage it needs to.

The door opens and Ian pulls his hand back out, leaving the knife concealed.

“Excuse me, this room is occupied,” says Gleeson, his face going red.

Ian turns and his heart stutters. Mickey is standing there, jaw tight, gaze fixed on Gleeson. He has that look in his eye, that dark swell of anger that Ian has only ever seen once before.

“It’s okay,” Ian says to Gleeson, smiling over his shoulder. “He’s here to watch. Isn’t that right?”

Mickey says nothing as he shuts and locks the door behind him. He stands against the far wall, his expression shut off, unreadable. Ian gets up and walks over to him, leaning into his neck and breathing him in.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, looking at Gleeson.

Gleeson opens his mouth, his eyes shooting between the two of them, like he can’t decide which to settle on. “W-will it cost me extra?”

Ian purses his lips, patting Gleeson’s cheek. “Of course not. Our treat.”

Gleeson swallows and nods. Watching Mickey, Ian circles the couch, standing behind Gleeson. He reaches into his shoe again, removing the knife. Mickey's eyes follow it, his jaw flexing.

Ian grins at him, placing the blade between his teeth. He leans over the back of the sofa and runs his hands over Gleeson's chest. For the first time, Mickey's expression shifts. His lips part, gaze fixed on the knife.

"We're getting married, you know," Ian says, taking the knife out of his mouth. "This is our way of celebrating."

"Oh?" Gleeson has relaxed again. He leans back into Ian's touch, sporting a very noticeable erection.

"Yes." Ian touches the tip of the knife to Gleeson's throat. "He's here to watch me kill you."

Ian watches Mickey's face as he slashes Gleeson's throat. Blood pours over his hand and Gleeson gargles, writhing on the sofa. Mickey flinches, but doesn't look away. Instead, he looks at Ian, breathing heavily.

"F-fuck," he says hoarsely, running a hand through his hair.

Ian lets go of Gleeson and his head slumps forward on his chest. His hands are sticky with blood. "Give me the burner," he says, wiping his hands on the red cushions of the sofa.

Mickey reaches into his jacket and hands Ian the phone. He sends off a text to the client. They want to keep this body, take their own photos too. Ian didn't ask why.

He tucks the phone into his shorts and looks at Mickey. "How was that? How do you feel?"

"I…" Mickey keeps glancing at Gleeson, like he can't decide whether he wants to look or not. He steps back, chewing his nails. "Fuck. Fuck, I don't know. This is—this is really fucked. I shouldn't be…"

"You enjoyed it."

Mickey gapes at him, shaking his head uncertainly. Ian exhales. He can feel himself getting hard. "Come here," he says softly.

It takes Mickey a few moments to move. When he passes the body, his brow furrows and he looks at Ian.

Ian cups his face and kisses him. It's tender, gentle. He gets blood on Mickey's jaw. Mickey winds his hand in Ian's hair, nails digging into his back. He makes a small, desperate noise in his throat.

"You fuckin' terrify me, Ian," he whispers.

"Mickey, I won't hurt you, ever…"

Mickey shakes his head. "Not just that. You… you make me feel…"

Ian nods and hugs Mickey, resting his head on his shoulder.

****

"Made him feel… what?"

At this point, Miller isn't sure she wants to know. She feels numb, hearing Gallagher's story. She wants to convince herself he's lying. That he's painting Mickey in a bad light to fuck with her.

But she believes him.

When Gallagher doesn't answer, she says, "Like a psychopath? A killer?"

"Mickey wasn't a psychopath," Gallagher says. He almost sounds defensive.

"Why not?"

Gallagher shakes his head, shrugging. "He loved me. Psychopaths don't feel love."

Miller frowns. "So you didn't love him back?"

Gallagher looks away, closing his eyes. "Figure it out, doctor."


	16. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wont' spoil this one for you guys. 😏

The wedding is small, last minute. They spend a while discussing potential venues. Most classic wedding venues are booked out for the next several months. Ian knows he could probably pull a few strings, throw a little cash around and someone will make a spot available for them. But Mickey is weird about money. Doesn't like burning it, so to speak. Besides, they aren't really going for anything extravagant.

Ian suggests a church. Mickey says he’d rather not, since churches are holy ground and Ian might burst into flames if he steps inside.

Eventually, they settle upon a small orchard garden just outside the city. It’s not really meant for weddings, and it’s expensive, squeezing them in at the last minute. The money doesn’t bother Ian as much as it bothers Mickey. He keeps suggesting they call off the wedding and just get hitched at the courthouse. But Ian wants a ceremony.

There aren’t many people they invite—even fewer who actually RSVP. Lip will be there, but Fiona is a very firm no. Debbie calls Ian in tears two days before the wedding, saying how devastated she is that she won’t be able to make it down on time to see him get married. After Ian assures her it’s okay, she puts Carl on the phone. He tells Ian about his plan to steal Fiona’s keys and drive all the way down to Illinois in two days.

Ian respects his ambition.

He asks Mickey if there’s anyone from his family he wants to invite.

“Nah,” Mickey snorts. “They’re all homophobes or in prison. Except for Mandy, but I don’t think she wants to hear from me.”

Svetlana and Yevgeny will be there, if only as a courtesy. Mickey has a couple of work colleagues he invites along, at Ian’s insistence. One of them is the ‘Veronica’ Svetlana has been banging—and her husband.

Other than that, most of the guests are inconsequential. Apart from Doris, maybe. She beams, delighted, when Ian knocks on her door and gives her an invitation. He feels it’s only polite, considering how many times she’s covered for him.

The wedding is scheduled for the evening. Ian likes the idea of having it at sunset. Mickey called him gay when he said that.

He’s trying on his tux the morning of, when there’s a knock on his bedroom door. Ian has moved since the unfortunate incident with Doyle. This new apartment is an upgrade in every sense of the word. It’s bigger, in a nicer part of town, and even has a guest bedroom. The master bedroom fits an armchair as well.

Ian and Mickey have made good use of that armchair.

Straightening his bowtie, Ian opens the door a crack. “You’re not meant to see me before the ceremony, Mickey, it’s bad luck.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re not a fuckin’ bride,” Mickey says. He rubs his face. “There’s uh, someone at the door for you.”

“Who?”

Mickey looks uncomfortable, glancing over his shoulder. Sighing, Ian pushes past him into the living room.

Shark and Eddie are standing in the front hall.

“What the fuck?” Ian shoots Mickey a frown. “You let them in? And how the fuck do you two always know where I live?”

“What’s with the getup?” Eddie asks, making herself comfortable on the sofa. Shark leans against the breakfast bar. He has the dark glasses on today, complete with jeans and a leather jacket.

“I’m getting married today,” Ian says. “And I thought you went into hiding?” He has enjoyed not having to see her stupid face.

“Didn’t have to, thanks to you,” Eddie says, eyebrow raised. “And I pity the idiot that agreed to marry you.”

“That idiot would be me,” Mickey says.

“Jesus. Seriously? You’ve seen him shoot the brains out of a guy. Not off-putting?”

Ian and Mickey exchange a brief, subtle glance. To those that know about Doyle’s death (and those people don’t extend beyond Shark, Eddie, and Doris), Ian is the one who killed him.

“No,” Ian says. “He’s turned on by my impulsive nature. Now what do you want? I assume you’re here for the USB?”

Eddie blinks and Shark stiffens. “You didn’t get rid of it? I was kind of hoping you had."

“Why would I? It’s good leverage.”

Eddie gives Shark a long look. He shakes his head slowly. “You need to fucking burn that shit, Gallagher. Bennett is on the warpath with you.” She pauses, frowning. “She knows you killed Doyle.”

Ian swallows. Unwelcome news, but he supposes it was only a matter of time. Mickey is staring at the floor, hands clenched. “I’m not afraid of Bennett,” Ian says.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gallagher. You’ve pissed her off big time. For real. Killing another person in the business is serious shit. They’ll find a way to make you pay.” She looks at Mickey, then drops her gaze, standing up. “Just thought we’d warn you.”

Ian has been in trouble with Bennett before. Kyle Lang was a fuck-up. This feels worse. Much worse.

He doesn’t want to be thinking about it. Not today. “Are you coming to the wedding then?” he asks, changing the subject.

Eddie snorts. “No thanks. You’re not exactly a person I want to be associating with right now, no offence.”

Ian rolls his eyes, turning back to his bedroom. “Whatever.”

“Congrats on the engagement,” Eddie says to Mickey. “Do yourself a favour when the ceremony is done and get a fucking divorce.”

“Always a fuckin’ pleasure,” Mickey says, scowling at her back as she and Shark leave. He turns to Ian, brow furrowed. “So this Bennett chick…”

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Yeah?” Mickey looks dubious. “‘Cause it sounds like she’s kinda pissed. And considering I’m the one who actually killed the guy—”

“It was me,” Ian says firmly. “I killed him. Okay? She has no reason to believe otherwise. She doesn’t even know you exist.” When Mickey looks unconvinced, Ian takes his hands. “I can handle her, don’t worry. The only thing you need to be thinking about right now is how we’re gonna consummate our marriage.”

Mickey laughs softly. “I think this marriage is pretty solidly pre-consummated.”

“Oh? Want to pre-consummate it one more time? Just to be sure.”

Mickey looks Ian up and down, wetting his lips. "Keep the tux on."

****

It's mid-Spring, so the orchard is in full bloom. The ground is sprinkled with pink and white blossoms, which are golden in the setting sun.

As it turns out, Mickey isn't bad at working a crowd. He skims the room, greeting people, shaking hands with old friends, laughing. He even holds a decent conversation with Lip, who has never been a fan of Ian's boyfriends.

"He's nice," Lip says, sitting on the settee Ian has secured in the corner of the room.

"Not really. He has other redeeming qualities."

Lip gives Ian a sidelong glance. "You love him? Or is this some bored psycho shit?" He swallows, watching Mickey walk between guests. "You're not planning on like… killing him, are you?"

"If I wanted to kill him, I wouldn't have gone to all this trouble," Ian says dryly. It seems it's a common assumption among people who know him. Svetlana, Eddie, now Lip.

It unsettles him, and he doesn't like it.

Lip shakes his head. "Right, sorry. I… presumptuous. My bad. Just thought you weren't really into the whole romance scene, you know? I mean, you've always been more of a fuck and run kind of guy."

Ian wants to remark that he has in fact had a boyfriend, but it wouldn’t exactly help his case.

Instead, he changes the subject. "Fiona didn't come."

Lip grimaces. "Tried to convince her."

"It's fine. Shame about Debbie and Carl, though."

Lip pats his shoulder. "They would've been here if they could. You know that, right?"

"Maybe it's for the best that they aren't," Ian says quietly.

Lip frowns. "I don't think so. Doesn't matter what you are, you're still their brother. They'll want you at their weddings too, someday."

Ian isn't so sure, but he nods anyway.

Across the room, he sees Svetlana, Yevgeny in her arms.

"Thanks for being here, Lip," Ian says. "Still off the alcohol?"

"Nearly seven months. Rehab was shit though."

Ian nods, but he's barely listening. Svetlana is watching him from across the room. "Excuse me," he says to Lip, getting up and crossing the room.

Svetlana's expression turns cold when he approaches her. She's wearing dark make up and a black dress better suited for a funeral. Ian suspects it's deliberate.

"Svetlana."

"Psycho."

Ian tickles Yevgeny under the chin, smiling back when the child laughs. Svetlana angles herself away from him.

"It is not monthly designated baby hour. Fuck off."

Ian rolls his eyes, clasping his hands behind his back. “He likes me.”

Svetlana narrows her eyes.

"Hey Lana, who's—holy shit, _Ian_?"

Ian glances at the newcomers and does a double take. "Kev? And—V? No way. _You're_ the Veronica she's fucking."

Veronica blinks and looks up at Kevin, who laughs and runs a hand through his short hair. "Uh, yeah. She mentioned that, did she?"

Ian raises an eyebrow, studying the three of them. No one is making eye contact with him, but none of them seem shocked by his statement. Ian wonders what kind of arrangement they have going.

"So, you're getting married!" Veronica says quickly, squeezing Ian's shoulder. "Congrats."

"Man, it's been years, hasn't it?" Kevin says. "The kid I remember was skinny and freckly and had no idea what a decent haircut looked like."

Ian smiles. "You remember me."

"Of course we remember you," Veronica says. "You think I’d forget a kid whose diapers I used to change?"

"You still talk to Fiona?" Ian asks.

Kevin and Veronica share a look. "When she has time for us," Veronica says flatly.

"Man, I can't believe you're the redhead psycho Lana told us about," Kevin says with a laugh. He receives a sharp elbow in the ribs from Veronica, who smiles at Ian pleasantly.

"He's just kidding," she says.

"No he is not. That is what I said," Svetlana says. "Little ginger psycho who eats the flesh of babies and steals husbands."

Veronica and Kevin look at Svetlana with wide eyes. Ian just smiles. "You two run into Lip yet?"

Kevin looks at him. "Shit, Lip's here? V, you wanna say hi? Haven't seen that kid in years."

Veronica is still looking at Svetlana, a wordless battle going on between them. But she smiles coolly. "Sure, Kev. Let's go find Lip." She holds Svetlana's gaze a moment longer before leading Kevin away, her heels clicking against the wooden floor.

"She didn't seem very happy with you," Ian says.

"She doesn't like that I speak the truth about you," Svetlana says. "She still thinks you are sweet little teenage boy. But I know what you are." She places Yevgeny on the floor, letting him cling to her ankles. Then she leans in close, resting a cold hand on the back of Ian's neck. "You are a killer. You will not stop being a killer. When they find Mickey's dead body, I will be the first person to testify against you."

Picking up her son, she walks away, leaving Ian with a pit of anger in his stomach. Svetlana's hatred doesn't bother him. The implications of her words do.

_I'll never hurt you, Mickey._

"Hey."

Ian spins around, and his anger dissipates. "Mickey."

He's smiling, and it's genuine. Not a look Ian often gets to see. "You look good."

"Yeah?" Mickey glances down at himself. He's wearing a white suit jacket, and a deep red shirt beneath.

"Must have had a good stylist," Ian says, straightening Mickey's bowtie.

Ian picked out the tux, but Mickey chose the red. "To match," he said at the time, running his fingers through Ian's hair.

"Sun's setting," he says now, looking out the window onto the orchard. "You ready?"

Ian nods firmly, swallowing. "Yes. Let's get married."

They walk down the aisle together. Neither of them are sticklers for tradition, and it's not as if there's anyone to give them away.

Ian likes it this way. He likes the brush of Mickey's fingers as he walks, likes seeing the way he tries not to smile. It works right until they reach the altar, and then Ian sees it.

That look.

Mickey's eyes soften at the corners and he bites his lip, sniffing. "I fuckin' love you, Gallagher," he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

The vows are nothing Ian commits to memory. They both keep them short and to the point. Mostly, they're full of platitudes to satisfy the officiant.

The only part Ian remembers is when Mickey looks him in the eye, earnest, and says, "I've never met anyone who's made me feel so fuckin' alive."

Ian has never been one for kissing. It's a placeholder for awkward silences and a way to avoid eye contact during sex.

But when Mickey kisses him there, at the altar, the world melts away, leaving nothing but the warmth of Mickey's hands and mouth.

It might be the first time in his life Ian has felt so certain of something.

Afterwards, everyone moves back inside. The sun has set, and the evening brings the smell of rain and distant, heavy clouds.

Mickey drinks more champagne than he should, and Ian is treated to a myriad of dance moves. Even Svetlana softens enough to let Yevgeny join his father on the dance floor, much to the delight of Doris. When he starts to sway and stumble, he drops into the sofa next to Ian, laughing.

"You're my fuckin' husband," he slurs, grinning as he leans against Ian. "Can't believe we got fuckin' hitched. I've definitely lost my fuckin' mind." He gazes up at Ian with a dopey smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "God, you're fuckin' gorgeous. I ever tell you that? Sometimes I wonder why you stick your dick in me."

"Well, it's not because of your way with words."

Mickey just grins, his hands still tracing Ian's face. Around them, people are drinking and laughing, distracted by their own affairs. Right now, it's just Ian and Mickey.

"I love you," Mickey says softly, resting his head on Ian's shoulder. "Doesn't matter that you can't say it back. I know you do too."

Ian shuts his eyes and puts his arm around Mickey. He has a way of making Ian feel vulnerable, just by being there. He dozes against Ian's shoulder, his breath warm against his neck.

"Gallagher."

Ian looks up and his blood runs cold. Mary Bennett regards him with a cool smile, her eyes flicking to Mickey. "I believe congratulations are in order. This your first one?"

"What do you want?" Ian says icily. He gently lowers Mickey's head onto the sofa and walks outside. Bennett follows.

It's begun to rain. Just a drizzle, but thunder rolls in the distance. Ian takes out a cigarette and lights it, leaning against one of the columns on the veranda.

"You've been misbehaving," Bennett says.

"Don't I always?"

"Nathan Doyle, Gallagher."

Ian pretends to be unfazed. "Who?"

"Don't play stupid with me. I know you aren't stupid. His car was parked a few streets away from your old apartment the night he went missing. Along with his associate."

"Pity," Ian says, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"We take it very seriously when one of our agents kills another unprovoked," Bennett says.

"Who says it was unprovoked? Maybe he insulted my hair."

"Maybe. But I don't like you, Gallagher, so I'll always assume the worst of you."

Ian smirks, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you? An excuse. So what's my punishment this time? Two months without pay? You going to cut my hours?"

Bennett reaches into her briefcase and takes out a folder. "Your next target."

Ian scoffs and opens it.

His entire body goes cold, rigid. His hands shake so hard he drops his cigarette. "What kind of sick fucking joke is this?" he whispers, his throat dry.

Bennett turns to head back inside. "Just remember, if you don't follow through, someone else will. Same as always."

Ian pulls his gun out of his jacket, pointing it at her with shaking hands. She remains utterly unbothered, rolling her eyes. “Bringing a gun to your own wedding? God, you really are a class act, aren’t you Gallagher?”

“Who ordered it?” he whispers. He doesn’t lower the gun. “You?”

She laughs, and he very nearly shoots her right then. “Come now, Ian, you know it isn’t personal. It’s just the organisation’s way of reminding you of your place.”

“Bullshit it isn’t personal,” he spits, clicking the safety off the gun.

Bennett just watches him, deadpan. “Killing me won’t help you, I’m afraid. I’ll just be replaced. The job will stand.”

“Yeah but it would make me feel a whole lot better.”

“You’re already being punished for stepping out of line. Don’t make it worse for yourself, Gallagher.”

She turns and walks away. Ian wants to shoot her in the back. Watch her bleed to death in the rain.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he stands deadly still, head swimming, his stomach tight with nausea. He stares at the name at the top of the profile until it's engraved behind his eyelids.

_Mickey Milkovich._

****

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

"I'd like to confess to a murder."

_"Excuse me, sir? Did you say a murder?"_

"A few murders, actually. How long do you have?"

_"Sir, are you—in danger? Can you give us your location?"_

"First was Gregory Robertson. Fifteen year old homophobic kid. This was about six years ago. Not sure if you're still interested. After that there were a few others, don't remember all their names. Mostly pedophiles, I don't think they were really missed. Oh, but there was Andrew Clarkson. Nice guy, just a bit talkative, and I was still practicing in those days, you know."

_"Yes… yes he said multiple murders... I don't know, he's still listing them."_

"That was all before I started getting paid for it, though."

_"Paid? You were paid to kill people?"_

"The first was Desmond Smith. No one important. You probably have him down as a drug hit gone bad. Technically true. I convinced him to overdose. Well, convinced is generous. I gave him a choice - knife or meth. Naturally, he picked meth."

_"Sir, are you safe right now? Is someone forcing you to say this?"_

"...I don't remember the names of a lot of the others. I really should have kept a list, shouldn't I? Oh well, I'll tell you who I do remember. There was that woman from the Mafia—Daniella, I think? Probably did you guys a favour with that one. Oh, and a few politicians too. Honestly, this would be easier if you just gave me a list of politicians who were murdered in Chicago in the last five years. It would really speed this along."

_"I don't think he's listening to me. No… it doesn't sound like a recording. Okay, I'll try and keep him on the line."_

"Anthony Wyatt, Hannah Cook, Lia Gomez, Candace and Julian Woods…"

_"H-holy… Okay, anyone else? Yes, he's still going… I don't know, maybe fifteen or so? He says he doesn't remember a lot of their names."_

"Daniel Rufus, Terry Milkovich, Nathan Doyle, Billy… something. Never caught a last name. Daria Lombardi, Amal Nazari, Cynthia Moore…"

_"Oh, god…"_

"Kyle Lang. Ex-boyfriend of mine. I wasn't paid for that one, though, but I killed him too."

_"I'm sorry, did you say Kyle Lang? Yes—yes he did."_

"Three or four dozen others, the names escape me now."

_"Holy—three or four dozen, he said. That's at least sixty total…"_

"Oh, one more. Mickey Milkovich. My husband. Ex-husband now, I suppose."

_"Sir, can you tell us your name?"_

"It's Ian Gallagher. I'm at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Room twenty-six. Should save your tracking team some time."

Miller stops the tape, sitting back. Gallagher is quiet in his seat, his expression calm, distant. There are fresh bandages on his wrists again. Miller can't bring herself to care.

"This is the police recording of the phone call you made to 911 right before your arrest."

Gallagher smiles, pursing his lips. "Now how did you come into possession of that, Doctor Miller? I hardly think it's public record."

"It was submitted as evidence at your trial," Miller says, avoiding the question. She's hardly prepared to go into detail about her less-than-legal dealings right now. Especially with Tara, the prison officer, standing dutifully at the door.

"So it was," Gallagher says. "And what's the relevance to our discussions?"

"You made the call from the hospital. What were you doing there?"

"Visiting."

"You were admitted as a patient."

Gallagher shrugs. "Ran into a knife."

"Medical records say it was a bullet wound."

"Ran into a gun."

Miller sighs. She won't get anywhere with this. No matter. It's hardly the most relevant part of the phone call. "Why did you confess?" she asks.

Gallagher tips his head to the side, humming. "Don't know. Just felt like it, I guess."

Miller rubs her temples. "It doesn't make sense. You killed dozens of people. _Dozens_ , before him. And you never had the urge to confess."

"Ah, so this is about Mickey. I should have guessed."

Miller's fist trembles. She knows she's losing control when she feels tears, burning at the corners of her eyes. "How did it happen? Tell me how you did it. How did you kill him?"

Gallagher rolls his eyes, sighing. "Read the script from my trial."

"No. No, I need to hear you say it."

Gallagher flicks two of his fingers. "Came home. Shot him in the head."

Miller is shaking her head. No, no it's all wrong. It doesn't add up. He's so impassive, so unfazed by it. Normally he's proud or smug. When he talked about killing Kyle Lang, he _cried_ , for Christ's sake!

But now, he doesn't show an ounce of emotion. Nothing. He may as well be talking about what he had for breakfast.

"What did you do with the body?" Miller asks, her voice low.

"Got rid of it?"

"They never found it."

Gallagher shrugs. "I hid it well."

Miller is breathing hard now. There's a heavy pressure in her head, her ears ringing. "Tell me. Tell me what you fucking did with Mickey's body!"

Gallagher sighs, laughing. "I don't remember. Tossed it under a bridge somewhere, probably. Or down a drain."

Miller stands up, slamming her hands against the table. "Tell me what you did with him you fucking psycho. Tell me what you did with Mickey! Tell me now you sick piece of shit, I swear to God. I'll—"

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy." Miller feels Tara's arms around her shoulders, pulling her away. "Come on, take a deep breath. Let's get you out of here."

Miller is crying openly now, hot tears streaming down her face. And still, Gallagher just watches her, completely calm.

Miller wants to tear his throat out. "You ruined him," she hisses as she stuffs her notes in her bag. "You ruined his life and then you fucking killed him, you sick, deranged psycho."

Gallagher doesn't even blink. "I suppose I did."

If Tara weren't there, urging her out of the room, Miller probably would have launched herself at Gallagher and ripped his throat out with her bare hands.

Tara nods at her coworker, Dennis, on the way out. He looks at Miller with pity in his eyes. She looks away, wiping the tears off her face.

"Hey, don't let that fucker get into your head," Tara says gently as she leads Miller past the rows of concealed cells. "He's sick. His brain is twisted and messed up. He'll drag you down to his level if he can. Don’t let him."

Miller doesn't say anything. The image of Gallagher's face, so plain, so emotionless, as he listened to his own confession, is burned into her mind.

"Doctor Miller—Mandy. Can I call you Mandy? I've watched you do this for months now. Coming in here, talking to him. I mean, from a psychological standpoint, I get it. Not many people as fucked up in the head as he is. But…" Tara frowns. "Why such an interest in the Milkovich guy?"

Mandy bites her lip, stopping. She shuts her eyes, fresh tears forming. "He was my brother."


	17. Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A massive shout out to @FiloX for drawing this gorgeous art of Ian! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/filorux/631747047337476096 I highly recommend checking them out on Tumblr if you haven't already! Their art is stunning.
> 
> Also, since this is the penultimate chapter, I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos on this fic. The support has been so overwhelming! I honestly wasn't expecting to receive so much positivity and so many wonderful comments. It's been very uplifting, and I honestly hope I have the inspiration/time/motivation to write more for this fandom, because you're all so lovely! Thank you so much 🥰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for severe self-harm and discussion of suicide and cutting.

In the thirteen months and six days he's spent here, Ian has never had a cellmate.

He understands why, but it gets a little boring, not having anyone to talk to. Seeing Doctor Miller every other week was one of the most exciting things that's happened to him in the last thirteen months and six days.

Well, that's over now, he supposes.

Even during meals and yard time, the other prisoners avoid him. It's a little offensive, really. Ian is hardly the worst person in here. There's a child molester somewhere in his block. And the guy three cells down used to be a cop.

The one advantage to being feared is that it's very easy for Ian to get what he wants from people. Cigarettes, an extra cup of pudding, a razor blade.

For a prison, razor blades are astonishingly common.

Ian gets a hold of them every other month and slices his wrists open, just to give himself something to do. He never goes deep enough to kill himself. The cuts are very deliberate. He knows what he's doing.

But every time he does it, he gets to visit the sick bay, and they increase his meds. Not that Ian is the biggest fan of the meds, but it's worth it for the doctor's visit. He can't complain about a change of scenery.

So today, after Doctor Miller has been escorted out, Ian is taken up to the sick bay to have his bandages changed and his meds administered.

Doctor Highland is a nice man. He's always gentle with Ian, and makes conversation. He's quite handsome too, tall, smooth, dark skin and bright blue eyes.

Ian sits on the edge of the bed as Doctor Highland carefully unravels his bandages, grimacing at the sight of Ian's bloody wrists. "Have you been scratching them, Ian?" he asks.

"No."

Highland studies him with a soft frown. "How is the pain?"

Ian hums. "On and off."

Highland dampens a piece of cotton wool with antiseptic and carefully dabs Ian's wrists. Ian winces a little. "Sorry," Highland says. "We just need to make sure they're clean. Easy to get infected in a place like this."

Once he's cleaned the wounds, he wraps Ian's wrists in fresh bandages. He jots a few things down on his clipboard, studying Ian carefully. "Have you been eating enough?"

Ian shrugs. He's lost a lot of weight in the past two years. Needless to say, he didn’t make bail, and the year-long trial was almost as bad as the sentence it resulted in. Prison food doesn't exactly do favours for muscle mass. He sees himself in the mirror sometimes, and doesn't recognise the person looking back. Probably for the best. He's too pretty for a place like this anyway.

"Okay… I just need to get your prescription from storage." Highland swallows, cuffing Ian to the bed. There's consternation in his eye when he does it. "I'll just be a moment."

He leaves Ian alone for no more than twenty seconds. When he returns, Ian is still in the same spot, idly picking at his bandages.

"Ian, don't do that," Highland chastises gently, undoing Ian's cuffs. "If you aggravate the wounds, it can take them months to properly heal. And it increases your risk of infection."

Ian lets his hands drop to his sides.

"Okay, so I have you on a series of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. I increased your dosage last time. Any new side effects?"

Ian hums, picking at the bedsheets. "Yeah, I haven't had an erection in almost two months."

Highland nods, avoiding his eye. "Yes, that is a common side effect. Anything else?"

Ian shrugs. "I'm always tired. Always."

Highland bites his lip. "The sedatives are quite strong. I'll… I'll decrease the dosage." He clears his throat. "I'm not… strictly meant to. But I'm concerned that they may be making your depressive episodes more potent."

Ian nods. There's a set of medical tools on the table close to the bed. A stethoscope and tweezers and a scalpel.

"How has your sleep been?" Highland asks. "Do you wake up often?"

"Usually."

"Nightmares?"

Ian nods.

"Okay," Highland says, frowning at his clipboard. "Well unfortunately, there's not much we can do for—" He freezes when he looks up.

Ian has picked up the scalpel. He turns it over in his hand. The blade is thin and sharp. It will do enough damage.

There's a little emergency buzzer on Doctor Highland's collar. When he presses it, it will take about seven seconds for an entire squadron of COs to show up. Ian knows he has to act quickly.

Fist tight around the scalpel, he lifts it and jams the blade into his own neck.

Pain shoots through him and he chokes, his own blood spilling over his hand.

"Oh—oh god! Ian!" Highland catches him before he can collapse. His gloved hands are cold on Ian's neck as he tries to stop the blood flow. "I need a stretcher in here!" he shouts as a group of COs and two nurses come rushing in. There are gasps of horror.

"What happened?"

"Self-inflicted… I only looked away for a moment."

"We need to get him to a hospital! I'll contact the paramedics on standby."

"Quick, help me stabilise him. He's losing consciousness."

Ian's vision is patchy, his consciousness slipping. The trip to the hospital is a blur of pain and blackouts. One moment he's being stretchered into the prison ambulance, the next he's being rushed into a room full of surgeons.

The pain isn't as bad as he expected. Probably all the meds. Mostly he feels dizzy, and breathing hurts a bit. He can taste his own blood, hot in his mouth.

"Administering anaesthesia…"

His eyes fall closed.

When he opens them, he's in a bed. Everything around him is bright white, and about five different machines are beeping and clicking. He can hear his own breathing echoed through an oxygen mask. His neck aches deeply.

There are two men stationed at the door and one next to the bed. Black spots dance before his eyes, his eyelids growing heavy again.

"He's awake!"

"Inform the warden."

"I don't think he can be moved yet."

"Get the nurse. We'll see."

Footsteps echo through the room and a woman in scrubs starts fiddling with the equipment. "Mr. Gallagher, can you hear me? He's conscious, but still not responsive..."

Ian feels the heavy weight of sleep pulling him under again.

He dreams of Mickey. Just his face, the way he looked at Ian on their wedding day. Ian hears voices, but they're muffled, like his head is underwater. They're soft at first, but then they grow louder, distressed. Loud noises ring through his skull, noises he can't place.

When he wakes up, it's abrupt and painful. He sucks in a breath and his neck throbs in protest. It's night outside, the sky dark through the window.

There's blood on the floor next to his bed, and on the walls, and the door.

So much blood.

The bodies of the three security guards have been moved to a corner. His eyes fall closed again.

"I think he's waking up."

It's a woman's voice. Ian recognises it, but can't place it. His eyelids are too heavy to open.

"Help me take out his IV. Yeah, the oxygen mask too. You think I give a shit? We weren't told he had to be comfortable."

Ian doesn't recognise the second voice. It's a man with a slight Spanish accent.

He's lifted out of the bed by a strong set of arms. When his feet touch the floor, his legs crumple beneath him. He tries to open his eyes but the room is a blur and his head throbs.

"Get him in the wheelchair," someone hisses. The woman, Ian thinks. He's lifted off the ground then, into the same set of strong arms.

"Whatever, just let him carry the kid," says the Spanish man. "It's quicker anyway."

"Oh for fuck's sake. Okay, come on."

Time passes like a hazy dream. Ian feels the hum of a car beneath him, and more voices.

"I think he's in pain, his breathing sounds all wrong…"

"Bennett didn't say anything about keeping him alive."

"If she'd wanted a body, she would have fucking said so. Drive faster."

Ian's neck throbs all the way through his shoulder and skull. He squirms, but his limbs are like lead. His entire body feels stiff.

There's a hand on his forehead then, gentle.

"What are you doing, Shark?" A sigh. "I know he's in pain, just… be careful. He's been unconscious for almost two weeks. Fuck, I really think Bennett called this one too early. He should still be in hospital."

Ian keeps hearing that name. Bennett. He doesn't know why, but it sparks fury in his stomach.

He drifts asleep again. When he wakes up, he's staring at a chandelier. It sparkles, making his eyes hurt.

"He's still alive? Good. Hook him up to the machine. No, no, don't bother with the morphine."

The angry burn returns to Ian's stomach. He recognises that voice.

He's being carried again, then there's something soft beneath his head.

"How long do you think it'll take for him to wake up?"

"A few days, maybe."

"Why do you think he did it?"

Laughter. "He's a survivor, that's why."

Ian wants to get up. He hates that laugh. That voice. He wants to cut out the voice box of whoever it is.

But his body fights him. He feels heavy, and his eyes still won't open. Sleep beckons to him. Or maybe it's death.

He lets darkness take him.

****

Ian wakes up to agonising pain.

His neck throbs sharply with every ragged breath he takes. Slowly, he pries his eyes open.

He's in a large, king-sized bed. The bedroom is huge, luxurious. Definitely not a hospital, or a prison. French doors open onto a balcony. Ian can't see anything but blue sky. A warm breeze blows through the room, carrying the smell of grass.

Distantly, he can hear classical music.

He tries to sit up, but his arms tremble and he sinks back down with a groan. Apart from his neck and shoulder, the rest of his body feels strangely numb.

The bedroom door opens and a woman walks in. She's wearing a white uniform, and freezes when she sees Ian. "You're awake!"

Ian opens his mouth, but his throat is too dry to speak.

"Hold on a moment! I'll be right back."

Ian doesn't want her to leave. He wants explanations, answers. Maybe a warm bath.

She returns with a jug of water and a glass. She has to help him sit up, his limbs still limp and useless. She tips his head back and helps him drink. Swallowing makes his neck ache.

"You did quite a number on yourself," she says. "Surgeons said they had to resuscitate you. Twice. You're lucky."

_Who are you?_ Ian wants to ask, but he still can't speak.

"Hold on," says the woman. "I think there's someone here who will want to see you."

She leaves again, and returns with a large man in a dark suit.

Shark.

His hair has grown out a little since Ian last saw him. Two years ago. Somehow, he looks even bigger.

He sits on the edge of the bed, studying Ian with a furrow in his brow.

"I don't think he can speak just yet," the woman says. "It might take a few hours for him to get his voice back. A day at most." She studies them for a moment before saying, "I'll leave you two alone."

Once she's left the room, Shark rests his hand on Ian's forehead, brushing away the long strands of hair in his eyes. "Ian."

It's the first time Ian has heard him speak. His voice is deep, gravelly. His eyes are soft. He looks worried.

He sits with Ian in silence until he falls asleep again.

It's night when Ian wakes up. Shark is gone, but Ian isn't alone.

Bennett is sitting on the end of the bed.

She's sipping from a mug. Ian can smell the coffee, along with her perfume. It triggers a deep-rooted hatred that's been simmering in him for the last two years. He manages to sit up a little, but his arms are still shaky.

Bennett turns around and smiles, tucking a dark blonde hair behind her ear. "Ian. When Tracy told me you were awake, I came as quickly as I could. You've been in and out for almost a week."

Ian just looks at her. His neck is throbbing. He wants to spit, claw, tell her exactly what he thinks of her right before he cuts her throat.

But he isn't capable of much more than a glare right now.

"Prison hasn't been kind to you, has it?" Bennett says with a pitying smile. Ian sees through her sympathy. She's smug.

The bedroom door opens and she looks up. "Ah. Shark, Eddie, just on time."

Eddie nods at Ian. "Gallagher. It's good to see you up." Her smile is strained.

"Gallagher and I were just discussing his time in prison," Bennett says. "Must have been quite awful for a suicide attempt. A little beneath you though, isn't it?"

Ian gives her a deadpan look. She knows it wasn't a suicide attempt. "More of a calculated risk," he says. His voice comes out weak and husky. Barely a whisper.

"Ah, he speaks! Eddie, fill a glass of water for him, will you?"

Eddie scowls at the back of Bennett's head before walking to Ian's side and pouring him a glass of water. He takes it slowly, his hand shaking enough to make it spill over the sides. It hurts to drink. He touches the side of his neck carefully, wincing. He can feel the stitches, the skin hot beneath his fingers.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Bennett says, standing up to place her mug on the dresser.

"Enjoying yourself?" Ian asks, his voice soft.

"Immensely. As much as I took pleasure in knowing you were rotting in prison, this is so much better. Now I get to see you with my own eyes."

Eddie looks uncomfortable, staring at the floor. Next to her, Shark is steady, unreadable. He has the dark glasses on again.

"Does it soften the blow?" Ian asks. "Of watching your organisation fall apart?"

Bennett's smile vanishes and her nostrils flare. She says nothing.

Ian smiles. "I'm assuming this isn't one of the safe houses listed on the USB drive I gave to the police?"

Eddie and Shark exchange a glance. They don't look surprised, but there's concern in Eddie's expression. She looks at Bennett anxiously.

Bennett takes a deep breath, plastering her smile back on. But it's false now, less satisfied. "How did a low-level brat like you get a hold of such information, I wonder?"

Eddie is watching Ian closely, her jaw tight and her eyes wide. Ian barely glances at her. "Nathan Doyle," he says, and Eddie's shoulders sink with relief.

"Doyle?" Bennett inhales, as if she's trying to calm herself. "Idiot. And I suppose that's why you killed him?"

Ian shrugs. "I suppose."

"You got almost a dozen agents arrested. We don't like our agents to get arrested, you know why?"

Ian tries to shake his head, but it hurts. "Why?"

"Because once an agent is arrested, they're compromised. The police have them on a watchlist, which puts the entire organisation at risk."

Ian smiles softly. "Oops."

Bennett's jaw tightens, but she's smiling again. "Do you know what we do with rogue agents, Gallagher? We kill them."

She takes out a gun and aims it at Ian.

Eddie looks startled. "What are you doing? You didn't tell us you were going to kill him."

Bennett scoffs. "Oh come now, Eddie. I know you're not an idiot. He ratted out our entire organisation to the police. He _confessed_ to five dozen hits. That USB drive named you and Shark personally! Don't even try to tell me you don't think he deserves this. What did you expect? A slap on the wrist and back to business as usual? This is protocol."

"You seem to be taking great pleasure in executing protocol," Ian says calmly.

"Oh, believe me. I do."

"He's just a fucking kid," Eddie hisses.

"A kid who almost compromised our entire organisation."

Eddie bites her lip. "Shark?"

Shark doesn't move. His face is a blank mask.

"Shark knows what has to be done," Bennett says, sighing as she approaches Ian's bed. "I'm so glad you survived prison, Gallagher. I was worried you wouldn't make it for a while there. Then I would miss out on the opportunity to do this myself."

Ian smiles faintly. "My pleasure."

Bennett shakes her head, laughing. "You had a good life with us, Gallagher. You were good at your job. And you threw it away. For what? Because I made you kill some boy you were fucking?"

"No," Ian says. "I did it because I hate you."

Bennett purses her lips. "Likewise." She clicks the safety off her gun. Ian closes his eyes, thinking of Mickey.

He hears a gunshot.

He waits a few seconds, but there's no pain. When he opens his eyes, Bennett is lying face down on the floor, a pool of blood forming around her head.

Shark puts his gun back in its holster.

Eddie is standing frozen, staring at Bennett's body. She looks up at Shark, opens her mouth, then closes it. "I need a fucking drink." She sinks into the armchair, pressing her hand against her forehead.

Shark helps Ian out of bed. His legs shake and Shark has to catch him before he falls.

"Where are you taking him?" Eddie asks.

Shark looks at Ian, questioning.

"Where are we?" Ian asks.

"About an hour outside of Chicago," Eddie says.

"I need to go back to the city," Ian says. "There's a doctor I need to see."

****

Mandy is watching TV when the doorbell rings. She sighs, tossing her half-empty takeaway container onto the coffee table.

"Dan, did you forget your fucking keys again?" she shouts, dragging herself across the room to open the front door.

Her breath catches and she jumps, trying to slam the door shut. Gallagher calmly places his hand on the door while the large man with him forces it open.

"Hello doctor," Gallagher says calmly, smiling.

There's a bandage wrapped around his neck. He looks worse than she's ever seen him. His lips are drained of colour, his skin sallow and his eyes are bloodshot. His red hair looks brighter than ever against his pale skin.

Mandy saw the news. Stabbed himself in the neck. Escaped from hospital. She doesn't know how he found her, but he's here. There's no one else home. Mandy wonders if she can buy herself enough time to save herself. Dan said he'd be back by now but he's usually an hour or two late.

Then again, maybe she should be trying to speed this along, so Gallagher and his friend are gone before he gets home.

Mandy looks up at the other man. He has to be close to seven feet tall, and he's big too, thick arms, wide shoulders. This must be Shark.

Somehow, Gallagher is still more intimidating.

He smiles at Mandy. "May we come in?"

_No, fuck no!_

"What do you want?" she asks, cursing the tremble in her voice.

"We should probably sit down," Gallagher says, walking past her. Shark nudges Mandy and she reluctantly follows him. She feels like a mouse, timid and pathetic. She wishes she knew how to fight, at the very least.

Maybe she could run. Gallagher doesn't look like he's in good shape. Even as he sprawls himself out on the sofa he winces, his fingers brushing the bandage around his neck.

Shark walks closely behind Mandy, forcing her towards the sofa. She desperately doesn't want to sit anywhere near Gallagher, so she remains standing.

It's alarming seeing him here like this, in her home. She'd grown so comfortable seeing him in cuffs. Sedated. Harmless.

Now he's out.

"Couldn't trouble you for a glass of water, could I?" he asks, his voice soft, almost frail.

Slowly, she walks to the kitchen and fills a glass for him. Shark follows her closely, never more than a few feet away.

So much for trying to run.

She places the glass on the table next to Gallagher. There's no chance she's getting close enough to touch him.

He sips it slowly, a pinched expression on his face. He's in a lot of pain, she realises. Yet, of all the places he could have gone, he still chose to come here.

She takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes. "Why don't you just kill me and be done with it? I'm not in the mood for your games. Please. Just… just end it."

Gallagher looks at her with wide eyes. "Kill you? Why on earth would I do that?"

Mandy blinks. "I thought…"

"I'm here to talk about your brother."

Mandy stares, stunned. "My… my brother?"

"Yes, Mandy," Gallagher says with a soft laugh. "I figured it out after a couple of interviews. Mandy Milkovich. Or is it Miller now?"

Mandy shakes her head, frowning. "Doctor Miller is… my boyfriend. He faked the study to help me. Got me a university ID and everything."

Gallagher raises an eyebrow. "He sounds super whipped."

Mandy shuts her eyes against the burn of tears. "I don't want to hear more about Mickey. I can't. I just… I can't anymore. I'm done."

Gallagher shuts his eyes for a moment, inhaling. "I can tell you where he is."

"Where his body is?" Mandy asks wearily.

"No," Gallagher says. "Mickey's alive."

Mandy stares at him, her breath catching. She shakes her head. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

Mandy runs a hand over her face, her pulse quickening. "Yes, yes you are. You fucking killed him! You confessed to it in court!"

Gallagher shrugs. "I was lying."

Mandy shakes her head, sobbing openly. She can't believe him. She can't bear the pain of hoping. He's _lying_. It's what he does. Always. "This is another one of your s-sick fucking games," she says, a tremble in her voice.

"It's not a game. I promise you, it's the truth."

All the while, Gallagher is calm. But not in the smug way Mandy is used to. He looks… tired.

Mandy inhales sharply, pressing her fist over her mouth. "Where is he?" she whispers.

Gallagher frowns, glancing at Shark. They share a wordless conversation, something private passing between them.

Mandy doesn't care anymore. She marches over to Gallagher and grips him by the shirt, making him wince sharply. "Tell me where he is or I'll fucking murder you myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter may take slightly longer than usual to post, since I haven't finished it yet and I have quite a lot on at the moment. But I'm hoping to have it done within the next week!


	18. The best, and worst day of his life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time Mickey shared his side.

Mickey jerks awake, a scream dying in his throat.

He sits up in bed, kicking away the covers and tearing off his sweat-soaked shirt. It’s a hot night, even with the portable fan on full blast. He wipes his forehead, strands of hair sticking to it.

He dreamed of Ian again. It’s almost a nightly occurrence at this point. Nightmares where Ian dies in his arms. Where he plunges a knife into Ian’s chest, chokes him, shoots him, beats him to death with a brick. They feel so real.

_They are real._

Mickey’s eyes burn and he sucks in air. He rubs his face with the heel of his palm, staring out the window.

_It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault._

The street below is a dull yellow, lit by the old lamps along the sidewalk. It’s quiet, just a few cars parked along the curb. Mickey glances at the clock. Three AM.

_Ian went to prison because of me._

Mickey gets up abruptly and goes to the bathroom. He twists the cold water tap and splashes his face, then changes his mind and sticks his whole head in the sink. It doesn’t help.

_Ian nearly died because of me._

Mickey grips the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. His reflection is pale in the grimy old mirror, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t slept properly in two years.

Every night, before he can fall asleep, that day plays in his head. Over and over and over. He remembers every detail of it. 

The best, and worst day of his life.

****

Mickey has heard of marital bliss. Until now, he assumed it was a cheesy myth used to trick people into getting hitched.

Now, he thinks he gets it.

He and Ian get home a little after midnight. They’re both still tipsy. Ian didn’t bother keeping his hands off Mickey for the taxi ride, not even when the driver started casting them strange looks in the rearview mirror. The entire trip, his hand was on Mickey’s inner thigh. Just resting there at first, but he kept moving it closer and closer inward.

It’s a testament to Mickey’s sex drive how fucking hard it’s left him.

As soon as the front door is closed, he’s on Ian. He presses him against the wall, crushing their lips together. Ian makes a small, satisfied noise in his throat and Mickey grinds into him. 

“Can’t believe I fuckin’ married you,” Mickey breathes. And he can’t. He really can’t. Marriage has never been on his agenda. Svetlana was a cover, forced on him by Terry when he was too young to know what getting married really meant.

Ian is a fucking murderer.

Yet somehow, Mickey is so sure of this. So sure of the way Ian’s body feels on his, the soft noises he makes against Mickey’s mouth, the way he makes Mickey’s heart beat and his breath quicken. No one else has ever made him feel so fucking alive, so _human._

“I fuckin’ love you,” he whispers, unzipping Ian’s slacks. “I’m so fuckin’ in love with, Ian Gallagher.”

A part of him knows it’s just passion. Excitement. It will fizzle out with time.

But another part of him believes there’s more beneath that passion.

It’s not that it doesn’t matter what Ian is. It took Mickey years to accept it. He still cares that Ian kills people. It still _bothers_ him, to some degree. But not in the way it used to.

His first, instinctual reaction, when Ian told him, was fear. Naturally. Fear for his own life. It’s not every day a guy finds out he’s been fucking a serial killer.

But once he moved past that initial phase of utter terror, he became… curious. Curious enough, in fact, that he followed Ian. At the time, he didn’t really know why he was following him. What would he have done, after all, if he _had_ stumbled across Ian committing murder?

Until he did. Sort of. He doesn’t remember much of the night he showed up to Ian’s house, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of whiskey. But looking back he knows. 

Ian killed someone that night.

He’s different, right after he’s killed. Excited. Alive. Passionate. And Mickey _likes_ that. It still scares him, sure. But seeing Ian like that is… exhilarating.

For a while, things were great between them. The sex was _great._

And then Mickey killed Doyle.

It didn’t make him feel bad.

It should have, he knows. It didn’t make feel good, per se, but most people feel bad after committing an act of involuntary murder, right?

That’s when it really struck Mickey. Ian made him feel human. Ian made him feel safe. They've literally killed for each other.

And now they’re married.

There’s a tiny voice, still, at the back of Mickey’s mind, whispering that this was all a horrible idea. That Ian is dangerous, in more ways than one. He’s a killer, but he also makes Mickey do things he wouldn’t normally do.

Like murder someone. Like watch Ian murder someone. Like _enjoy_ watching it.

“Mickey,” Ian moans, tipping his head back as Mickey kisses his neck. “Mickey…”

“Keep saying my name,” Mickey growls, digging his fingers into Ian’s hips.

“Fuck, Mickey. I want to be inside you.”

“Yeah? Which part of me?”

Ian catches Mickey by the chin and pulls him up, meeting his eye. Sometimes, Mickey forgets just how _beautiful_ Ian is. Especially when he’s like this. Hair messy, lips pink, cheeks warm. Mickey watches as his throat bobs. 

“Say you love me again,” Ian whispers.

“I—I love you.” Mickey is thrown off by the request. "Ian…"

“Again.”

“I love you?”

Ian leans back, raising an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yeah I'm fuckin' sure. I fuckin' love you."

Ian grins and presses his face into Mickey’s neck. “Say it again.”

“I fuckin’ love you, Ian. You gonna fuck me any time tonight?”

Ian laughs, breathless. “Bedroom. Come on.”

They don't need to spend much time on prep. Mickey is still loose from this morning. When he turns over, Ian shakes his head, rolling him onto his back. "I want to see your face."

He props a pillow beneath Mickey's hips and lines himself up. His hair hangs in his face as he leans over Mickey, fiery, bright. Mickey wraps his legs around Ian's waist, eager and impatient.

When Ian sinks in that first inch, they both groan. Mickey digs his fingers into Ian's back. "Deeper. C'mon."

"I want to savour it."

"Shut the fuck up and move your hips. Or I'm topping."

Ian smiles, wetting his lips. "You say that like it's a threat."

Later, maybe. Fuck, but right now it feels so good having Ian inside him. He pushes deeper, grinding against Mickey's sweet spot. Mickey sucks in a breath, moaning.

"Fuck. Holy fuck. Oh, Ian, _yes_. Harder." Mickey rolls his hips, meeting Ian's thrusts.

It isn't long before Ian gives up on savouring it and begins rutting into Mickey. He braces one hand against the headboard, the other beneath Mickey's ass, lifting it just an inch off the bed.

It's hot, brutal. Ian's thrusts shake the bed, knocking the headboard against the wall. His breathy gasps become soft moans, which become pleasured cries.

Mickey loves watching his face when he's nearing his climax. His eyes fall closed and his lips part. Sometimes he bites his bottom lip. His hair hangs in his face, soft, warm. Mickey loves pulling on it.

"Fuck. Fuck, Mick…"

"That's it. That's it, Ian. Come on— _oh._ Oh fuck, right there! Fuck."

Ian has a habit of burying his face in Mickey's neck when he's about to come. Tonight is no different. His breath is hot against Mickey's jaw, his hair tickling his neck.

He sinks in deep and holds himself there, shivering as he comes. The flood of warmth inside Mickey makes him groan. "Ian, oh…"

Ian's hand shakes around Mickey's cock as he works him, spreading precum over the head. His movements are jerky, quick, but Mickey is so close that it's more than enough.

Ian is still inside him when he comes.

"Shit," Mickey breathes as Ian rolls off him. "Are you getting better at that?"

Ian's chest heaves as he stares at the ceiling. He runs a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. He shuts his eyes, silent but for his heavy breaths.

Mickey curls up against him, pressing his face against Ian's neck. "I'll fuck you later?" He hums, kissing his way up Ian's jaw. "It's been a while. Bet you're nice and tight."

Ian shivers, turning to look at Mickey. His eyes flick to Mickey's mouth, then away. "I'm going to have a shower," he says suddenly, getting up.

Mickey sits up in bed. "All right. Want me to join you?" Ian's come is still drying between his legs.

Ian hesitates before smiling. "That's okay. In fact, why don't you go first? I have a few things I need to take care of."

"Okay…" Mickey watches with a frown as Ian dresses. "You good?"

"Of course." Ian crouches to kiss Mickey's cheek before leaving, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Mickey sits for a few moments, baffled. Maybe he's still adjusting. Mickey tries to shake it off. Of everything Ian does, this is hardly the strangest.

After cleaning himself up in the shower, Mickey changes into a pair of sweatpants and one of Ian's shirts. He still hasn't moved a lot of his stuff over here. It's sort of weird, being married but not technically living here properly yet.

_Ian is his husband._

Now that, Mickey quite likes the sound of. He still feels a little insane for agreeing to this. _Ian is literally a serial killer._ Mickey knows it should bother him more. The logical part of him knows it, at least.

But somehow, it doesn't. Because it's Ian. And Mickey loves him.

When he walks back out into the living room, Ian is nowhere in sight.

"Ian? You around?" Mickey frowns, heading into the kitchen. It's empty too. 

He gets himself a beer from the fridge, knowing full well he's surpassed a healthy amount of alcohol for the night.

It's strange, really, that Ian left without telling him. Mickey tries to ignore the swell of anxiety in his chest. It's their wedding night. He doesn't want to panic over something like this. Ian is always disappearing, re-appearing, running off and then coming back without warning. It's just his way. This isn't unusual.

But it's their wedding night.

Mickey glances at the door, half-expecting it to open. It doesn't.

He spots Ian's satchel on the floor in the front hallway, tossed aside carelessly. His gun is poking out. Mickey bites his lip and stands up, going over to pick it up.

A folder slips from the bag.

_Confidential_ , it reads.

It's a target. Mickey is certain. He's never seen Ian's job folders before, but he can't think what else it might be. He swallows thickly, looking at it where it lies on the floor, still holding Ian's gun.

Curiosity. It's what drove him towards Ian. It's what drives him to open that folder.

When he sees his own name printed across the top of the page, he drops the folder as if it's burned him.

His head spins and he scrambles away, as if the folder itself is pointing a weapon at him.

_No. No, no, no._

He feels like an idiot. He should have known. He should have fucking _known_. Ian is a _serial killer._ What the fuck was he thinking? He just fucking married a hired assassin, and now he's on the hitlist. He has no excuse for being surprised.

He needs to run.

He races into the bedroom and scrambles around for his jacket and boots. He shoves some clothes in a bag, and some money. His mind is in overdrive. He doesn't know how soon Ian will be back.

He doesn't pause to check if he's forgotten anything. It doesn't matter. He just needs to get out. Now.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he rushes back into the living room just as the front door opens.

"I got us pizza," Ian says. "Only place still open at this time and they don't do delivery. I mean what kind of pizza place… Mickey?" He freezes, staring at Mickey with his backpack over his shoulder.

Gun pointing straight at Ian.

He glances down and sees the folder at his feet, Mickey's name sticking out the top.

He looks at Mickey with wide eyes. "Mickey, this isn't—it's not what you think."

Mickey shakes his head, the gun trembling in his hand. "I'm such a fucking idiot."

"No you're not, Mickey." Ian raises his hands, defensive. "Just listen to me—"

"No, no I'm not letting you fuckin' poison me anymore!" Mickey spits, making Ian flinch. "Just stay back. Don't come any closer."

Ian takes a step forward. "Mickey, please, I love you—"

Mickey shoots.

The bullet hits Ian in the stomach and he doubles over and collapses, choking in shock.

Mickey stands there for a moment, frozen as Ian rolls onto his back. Blood blossoms out on his shirt, shining red against the white.

“F-fuck.” Mickey drops the gun and takes a step back. Ian's breathing is weak and rasping. He whimpers in pain, his face white, lips colourless. Mickey’s gut wrenches, but he’s frozen. “Ian, I… I didn’t…”

He’s shoved aside roughly.

Shark kneels beside Ian, tearing away his bloody shirt and applying pressure to the wound. Blood leaks through his fingers and Ian groans weakly. Mickey vaguely remembers something Ian said about Shark being able to smell blood from a mile away.

Shark turns to Mickey, his eyes burning. "Go."

"B-but Ian, I—"

Shark's gaze falls onto the folder on the floor. He looks up at Mickey sharply and Mickey scrambles back. "You're dead," Shark says.

Mickey looks at him in horror.

"You're dead," Shark repeats. "You came home, you shot him. So he killed you. Now you're dead. Go. Disappear."

Mickey stares at him. On the floor, Ian's eyelids flutter closed. "B-but he—"

"Go now. The ambulance is coming."

Mickey looks at Ian, unconscious and pale as ice. He wipes his face, surprised to find his eyes damp, before bolting out the door.

****

The image of Ian lying there, bleeding out on the floor, is permanently engraved in Mickey's brain.

He tries to remember him in other ways. The way he looked when he laughed. When he smiled at Mickey on their wedding day. When he whispered Mickey's name as he came undone in his arms.

But all Mickey sees is blood. Spilling across the floor while Ian stares up at him, cold as death.

_Mickey, please, I love you…_

After fleeing the scene, he went straight to Svetlana. For all their disagreements, she didn't hesitate a moment when he told her what had happened.

"You have money?"

"Yes—a bit."

"Enough to disappear for a few weeks?"

"I… I think so?"

"Go. Drive until you find small, pathetic town, then stay there. When you are declared dead, your money will go to me and Yevgeny."

"I never wrote a will or anything, I don't know—"

"I will sort out will. Money will come to me and I will have it sent to you. Do not tell anyone else where you are going."

He didn't.

A few weeks after leaving, he saw the news. 

_Chicago serial killer arrested. Awaiting trial. Rumoured to have murdered over sixty people._

It took everything Mickey had not to drive back down to Chicago. _Everything_ he had. 

Because for one, Ian was alive. That filled him with a sudden rush of relief, which was quickly drowned out by the horror that Ian had been arrested.

Mickey actually got in his car and drove almost an hour before he regained his senses.

For the next year, he kept a close eye on the news as Ian’s trial went on. Thirteen life sentences. He confessed to everything.

That's what keeps Mickey awake at night.

_He confessed._

He wanted to go to prison. He didn't want to see Mickey again. Fuck, and Mickey can't even blame him for that.

And now, two years later, Mickey is still here.

Normal, Illinois, is—as the name suggests—very normal. It’s big enough that Mickey can go unnoticed, but also small enough that no one outside of the city really gives a shit about it.

Every day is the same. He works odd construction jobs when he can find them. He goes to the local convenience store and stocks up on bread, milk, and beer. Then he comes home, showers, masturbates, sleeps, wakes up a dozen times in the night.

Repeat.

For two years.

It’s a Sunday evening, and he’s out having a drink. He knows he shouldn’t be drinking. He has work in the morning. But it’s not as if there’s much else to do around here. Nothing exciting. Nothing thrilling. No one attractive enough to fuck sober.

These days, he drinks more than he should. It started as a beer after work every other day to take the edge off. Then it was two beers. Then one before work.

Some weekends, he barely remembers.

Tonight isn’t one of those nights. He’s not sober, but he’s only had a couple of drinks, and his tolerance has grown. The bar shuts at ten on Sundays. It’s shit, but probably for the best. He trudges home through the sticky summer heat, eyes half-closed.

The streets of Normal are always quiet on Sundays. Not like Chicago. Mickey misses the buzz. The constant energy, the life. He misses the anonymity of walking down a street and blending into the noise. He misses the exhilarating feeling of getting wasted in a nightclub and wandering past Ian’s apartment on the way home, hoping that maybe he’d catch a glimpse of him through the window.

Thinking about Ian sends an unpleasant, but familiar ache through Mickey’s chest. He lets out a breath and keeps walking, footsteps all too loud on the deserted street.

He turns the corner and sees the familiar flickering light of his apartment lobby. There’s a woman at the foot of the steps outside. Mickey passes her without a glance.

“Mickey?”

He flinches when she says his name. Semi-tipsy, it takes him a moment to recognise her voice. He spins around sharply, blinking. “What the fuck…?” He startles when she throws her arms around him. “M-Mandy?”

“Yes—oh, god. It’s me. Yes, it’s me. I—you’re alive! You’re fucking alive.” She pulls away suddenly and hits him hard on the arm. “What the fuck, Mickey!”

He can’t even muster irritation. He just stares at her, bewildered. It’s been, what? Five years since he saw her? At least. “You… you’re blonde now,” he says, unable to think of anything else.

Her eyes are damp, mascara blotchy. “Yeah. I am.”

He shakes his head, still processing. “And—how did you find me?” It occurs to him, suddenly, that he could be in danger. No one is supposed to know where he is. “Are you… are you alone?”

“Svetlana told me where to find you.” She doesn’t answer the second part of his question.

“How… how did you know I was alive?”

She looks down for a moment, shutting her eyes. “Mickey… have you seen the news?”

“The news? No, I don’t watch it anymore.” His chest twists suddenly. “What? What is it?”

Mandy looks down the street, chewing her bottom lip. “I… maybe this isn’t the best place for—”

“Is it about Ian?”

Mandy sighs, but doesn’t look surprised. Mickey doesn’t know how much detail they shared about his relationship with Ian at the trial. Mandy seems to know more than she’s letting on.

“We should go inside,” she says.

“Mandy—”

“Yes, it’s about Gallagher, okay? But we can’t talk about it out here.”

Mickey is frozen. “Mandy, please just—is he dead?”

Mandy frowns, and Mickey’s chest churns with nausea. It’s why he hasn’t looked at the news for the past year. Why he tries not to think about him. Every time he thinks about it, he only feels dread.

“No,” Mandy says, “he’s not dead.”

Mickey shuts his eyes, exhaling. “Okay.”

“Come on. We need to get inside.”

Mickey follows Mandy upstairs without a word.

_It’s about Ian, but Ian isn’t dead._

Mickey’s relief is quickly fading. Just because Ian isn’t dead, doesn’t mean it isn’t bad news.

When they reach Mickey’s front door, it’s unlocked. “What the fuck?”

Mandy sighs. “I told him he should wait in the car.”

“Him? Who?” Mickey doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes open the door and marches inside. He stops short.

Ian Gallagher is sitting in the middle of his living room, legs crossed, casual as ever. He gets up when he sees Mickey, then pauses. Mickey shakes his head, dizzy. “H-how—”

“If you’re wondering how I got in, your locks are very easy to pick.”

His voice is different. Raspy, weak. There’s heavy bandaging around his neck. He looks strange too; almost unfamiliar. He’s so much thinner, collarbones sharp and cheeks hollow. His skin is paler, making his red hair look vibrant. He looks… somber. He isn’t the energetic, excited man Mickey remembers. He’s smiling, still. Mickey remembers that smile. He remembers being simultaneously terrified and thrilled by it.

“You… you’re out.” Mickey swallows. Mandy hovers beside him, watching Ian with wary eyes. Mickey looks at her suddenly. “How did you—you _know_ him?”

“We met in prison,” Ian says, and again, his voice sounds wrong. Too weak.

“What… what happened to you?” It’s the first question that comes out, but Mickey has so many more he wants to ask.

“A lot of things,” Ian says. “If you’re wondering about the bandages, I stabbed myself in the throat.”

“Oh.” It’s all Mickey can say. He still hasn’t moved any closer, and neither has Ian.

“You look good,” Ian says. He bites his lip, taking Mickey in. The way he does it is familiar. Mickey has almost forgotten what it feels like to have Ian Gallagher look at you that way. Like he’s found something he really likes, and intends to keep it.

“You look…”

“Like shit?”

Mickey shakes his head slowly. “Nah… nah you look—fuck.” His breathing stutters and he rubs his face. “ _Fuck_ , Ian.”

“I’m sorry, Mick.” Ian’s voice is very small.

“Sorry?”

“For leaving you…” He pauses, frowning uncertainly. “For coming back? I honestly can’t tell if you want me here or not. Should I go?”

“Go?” Mickey laughs, high-pitched. “You’re not fucking going anywhere. Not after two years.”

Ian’s eyes dart to Mandy. She says nothing, but she’s frowning. “The last time we saw each other…”

“ _Fuck._ ” Mickey slams his fist against the wall, burying his face in his palm. “I shot you.”

Ian _smiles_. Because of course something like that would make him smile. “You did.”

“You said you loved me.”

Ian hesitates a moment, looking at Mandy again. Mickey doesn’t understand what he’s missing between them. How they even know each other. “I did,” Ian finally says. “I do love you.”

“Oh god, Ian.” Mickey clenches his fists, a thick lump in his throat. He inhales sharply, fighting back tears. “You love me?”

“Yeah.”

“Even—even after—”

“I spent thirteen months in prison and not a single day went by where I doubted it.”

Mickey shuts his eyes, biting his lip. “How did you get out?”

“A long, bloody story. For another time, maybe.” He still hasn’t approached Mickey. Like he’s waiting for him to make the first move.

“And why are you here?”

“For you.”

Two years ago, Mickey would have doubted him. Feared for his life, even. He knows now that he wasn’t ready then, to commit to Ian. He didn’t trust him. There was still a part of him that feared Ian. And now…

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Ian says quietly. “Do you… do you hate me?”

“God,” Mickey chokes. “Do I hate you?”

“Well… you shot me.”

Mickey laughs weakly. “Yeah—yeah I fuckin’ shot you. It was about time someone did.”

Mandy looks uncertain, her eyes darting between the two of them. Mickey wonders if she’s staying to make sure Ian doesn’t hurt him… or maybe it’s the other way round.

“It hurt.”

“God—” Mickey runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. “Like I’ve thought about anything else for the past two years. _Fuck,_ Ian.”

“You thought I was going to kill you.”

Mickey nods, biting his lip. “I thought you were… But I love you. I know I do. And you just spent a year in prison protecting me. If that ain’t fuckin’ love, then—”

“Mickey…” Ian’s voice is faint. “Can I… touch you again?”

Mickey approaches him slowly. When he’s close enough to hear his breathing, he stops.

“I’ll… I’ll wait in the car,” Mandy says quietly. She looks as if she’d rather stay. As if she hates the idea of leaving them alone. But after a moment of hesitation, she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

“She doesn’t trust me,” Ian says.

“Gee, can’t imagine why not.” Mickey is still trying to figure out the odd relationship between Ian and Mandy. Clearly, she trusts him enough to have come all this way with him. But she knows what he is. Most of the state of Illinois does.

There’s still a foot of distance between them. Mickey is still convinced this is another dream, and that at any moment, Ian is going to start bleeding out at his feet. He shuts his eyes and closes the distance, slowly putting his arms around Ian, resting his head on his shoulder. He feels real, if more brittle than Mickey remembers. But he’s warm, and he’s familiar. Even his scent is the same.

“There will be people looking for me,” Ian says quietly. He’s holding Mickey tightly, like he’s afraid he’ll slip away.

“Don’t care,” Mickey says, sighing and pressing his mouth against Ian’s jawline. “Wherever you’re running to, I’m coming.”

“Dangerous people. And probably lots of cops.”

Mickey laughs, catching Ian’s mouth in a deep, slow kiss. “You think I give a shit? Like I’m ever fuckin’ leaving you again.”

Ian holds him a little tighter. “Like I’d ever let you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't even know how to thank you guys for all the support you've given me throughout this fic. I've been writing fanfic for a few years (for various other fandoms), and I've never had such positive and friendly comments like you guys have given me on this fic. 😊 You're a really awesome group of people, so if I ever have any more ideas for Gallavich fanfics, I'd definitely like to share them!
> 
> A huge shoutout to everyone who commented - especially those who commented on multiple chapters! I recognise all the names and it always makes me happy to see you guys returning for each new chapter 🥰🥰  
> And even if you're one of those people who is too shy to comment, and just left kudos or read each chapter, I still really appreciate you!
> 
> *Ahem*, anyway, gushing over. I hope you guys had fun watching Ian murder people!
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: Sometimes I worry that my replies to your comments don't sound sincere enough. I usually end up replying to comments at 3am or some ungodly hour, so I often just word-vomit onto the page and say the first thing that comes into my head. So since I'm limited by text, I'll just say that, regardless of how I reply, just know that I am absolutely beaming behind my screen!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are always appreciated! <3


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